•It 


BE  R  K 

LIBU 

N1VERSJTY/  OF 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


* 


^ 


sa£2ra£3Ki^^ 
********** 


C~^ 


A 


C  LI  O. 


JAMES   G.   PERCIVAL. 


No.  I. 


Che  sia  ft a  i  magnanimi  pochi ! — PETRARCH, 


CHARLESTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  S.  BABCOCK  &  CO. 

C.  C.  SEEKING,  PRINTER. 

1822. 


DISTRICT  OF  SOUTH-CAROLINA: 

j*j«******|  BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  that  on  the  twenty-fifth 
t  SEAL>  *'  day  of  January,  A.  D.  one  thousand  eight  hundred 
\  and  twenty -two,  and  in  the  forty-sixth  year  of  the 
^********  Independence  of  the  United  States  of  America, 
JAMES  G.  PERCIVAL  deposited  in  this  office  the  title  of  a  book, 
the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  author  and  proprietor,  in  the 
words  following,  to  wit  : 

"  CLIO.     By  James  G.  Percival.     No.  I. 

"  Che  sia/ra  i  magnanimi  pochi! — PETRARCA." 

In  conformity  to  the  act  of  congress  of  the  United  States,  enti 
tled,  "  An  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing 
the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and  books,  to  the  authors  and  propri 
etors  of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned  j"  and 
also'  an  act,  entitled,  "  An  act  supplementary  to  an  act,  entitled, 
i  An  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  co 
pies  of  maps,  charts,  and  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors 
of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned,'  and  extend 
ing  the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving,  and 
etching  historical  and  other  prints." 

JAMES  JERVEY, 
Clerk  South- Carolina  District. 


ft 
PREFACE. 


1  MIGHT  perhaps  give  the  public,  in 
rounded  phrase,  an  apology  for  obtruding 
this  volume  on  their  notice:  but  I  feel  no 
inclination  to  beg  for  it  that  favour,  which 
its  own  merits  will  not  obtain.  I  have  not, 
like  Geoffrey  and  the  Idle  Man,  concealed 
my  real  name  beneath  a  fiction.  I  do  not 
fear  to  answer  for  the  offences  of  my  own 
effusions,  and  I  do  not  expect  from  them  a 
weight  of  honour  too  great  for  my  own 
shoulders  to  bear.  I  have  offered  this  vo 
lume,  as  the  first  number  of  a  series,  which 
may  perhaps  be  continued.  But  I  make  no 
promises.  It  may  not  only  be  the  first,  but 
the  last  of  the  family.  At  least,  I  do  not 
intend  to  limit  the  appearance  of  these  num 
bers  to  stated  periods;  but  should  I  find 
myself  warmed  by  the  sun  of  public  patron 
age,  and  feel  my  fancy  free  to  expatiate  in 


1Y 

a  happy  vein,  I  shall,  as  soon  as  the  materials 
are  sufficiently  accumulated,  again  embody 
them,  and  give  them  to  the  world. 

If  I  mistake  not,  we  are  indebted  to  our 
distinguished  fellow  citizen,  Irving,  (a  man, 
Whom  his  country  should  be  proud  to  ho 
nour,  and  who  so  becomingly  discharges  the 
functions  of  minister  plenipotentiary  of 
American  taste  and  genius  in  the  literary 
republics  of  Europe,)  for  the  plan  of  com 
bining  elegant  essays,  and  pleasing  narratives, 
in  numbers,  which  do  not  issue  from  the 
overdrawn  fountains  of  monthly  and  quar* 
terly  literature,  but  roll  on  in  vigorous  ful 
ness,  when  the  burdened  spirit  lets  loose  its 
overflowings.  In  his  own  native  land,  he 
has  found  his  imitators  springing  up  around 
him,  like  meadow  flowers  around  our  proud 
est  lily  ;*  and  although  we  have  seen  none 
on  whom  his  entire  mantle  has  fallen,  yet  the 
Idle  Man  has  added  one  improvement,  by 
winding  up  his  numbers  with  the  sweet 
touches  of  the  gentle  harp  of  Green  River. 

*  Lilium  Supcrbum. 


I"  have  ventured  to  invert  the  order,  and  to 
place,  in  the  front  rank, 

"  Words  that  move 
In  measurM  file,  and  metrical  array." 

This  is  indeed  quite  a  modification  of  the 
experiment,  and  it  remains  to  be  learned  how 
the  public  will  tolerate  a  periodical  poet, 
who,  like  the  wandering  minstrel  of  old, 
will  take  them  in  his  round  at  certain  sea 
sons,  and  demand  for  his  airy,  unsubstantial 
offerings,  a  quantum  sufficit  of  more  tangible 
existences.  I  can  plead,  in  my  defence,  the 
examples  of  the  German  bards,  Kotzebue, 
Lessing,  and  Burger;  but  these  Germans  are 
a  visionary  race,  who  love  to  wander  in  the 
regions  of  mysticism  and  singularity, — and 
are  therefore  not  to  be  pleaded,  by  the  dwell 
er  in  a  country  so  enlightened  and  business 
like  as  ours.  I  would  not  indeed  wish  to 
split  hairs  with  Kant,  nor  dream  of  his 
possible  transcendentalisms;  nor  would  I  seal 
the  fate  of  a  luckless  wight  by  the  unfortu 
nate  swell  of  his  cranium ;  nor  revel  among 
the  caverns  and  churchyards,  the  ghosts  and 


i  * 


VI 

goblins  of  moonstruck  ballad-mongers;  nor 
rake  up  the  filth  of  human  depravity  and 
wretchedness  to  pour  it  over  such  pages,  as 
Melmoth  and  Bethfem  Gabor:  but  1  do 
think  the  plan  of  giving  the  public,  now  and 
then,  a  neat  tidy  volume  of  verses  and  stories, 
in  which  perchance  the  music  of  measure 
shall  predominate  over  the  plain  talk  of  prose; 
I  do  think  it  the  most  harmless  of  all  their 
conceptions  I  have  met  with,  and  the  least 
likely  to  make  mad  lovers,  mad  doctors,  or 
mad  philosophers,  of  any  thing  they  have 
dreamed  of  in  the  mysterious  seclusion  of 
their  closets. 

But  I  will  now  speak  more  in  earnest.  I 
do  not  intend  to  give  satires  on  the  living 
manners,  as  they  rise;  nor  broad-grinning 
caricatures  in  the  style  of  North  and  Co. ;  but 
to  delineate,  as  well  as  may  be,  the  beau 
ideaL  Poetry  should  be  a  sacred  vthing,  not 
to  be  thrown  away  on  the  dull  and  low  reali 
ties  of  life.  It  should  live  only  with  those 
feelings  and  imaginations,  which  are  above 
this,  world,  and  are  the  anticipations  of  a 
brighter  and  better  being.  It  should  be  the 


Vll 

creator  of  a  sublimity  undebased  by  any 
thing  earthly,  and  the  embodier  of  a  beauty, 
that  mocks  at  all  defilement  and  decay.  It 
should  be,  in  fine,  the  historian  of  human 
nature  in  its  fullest  possible  perfection,  and 
the  painter  of  all  those  lines  and  touches,  in 
earth  and  heaven,  which  nothing,  but  taste, 
can  see  and  feel.  It  should  give  to  its  forms 
the  expression  of  angels,  and  throw  over  its 
pictures  the  hues  of  immortality.  There 
can  be  but  one  extravagance  in  poetry ;  it  is, 
to  clothe  feeble  conceptions  in  mighty  lan 
guage.  But  if  the  mind  can  keep  pace  with 
the  pen ;  if  the  fancy  can  fill  and  dilate  the 
words,  it  summons  to  array  its  images:  no 
matter  how  high  its  flights,  how  seemingly 
wild  its  reaches ;  the  soul,  that  can  rise,  will 
follow  it  with  pleasure,  and  find,  in  the  har 
mony  of  its  own  emotions  with  the  high 
creations  around  it,  the  surest  evidence  that 
such  things  are  not  distempered  ravings,  and 
that,  in  the  society  of  beings  so  pure  and  so 
exalted,  it  is  good  to  be  present.  I  might  go 
on  to  speak  farther  of  the  nature  and  uses  of 
poetry ;  but  I  will  now  forbear.  Perhaps  it 


may  hereafter  be  the  subject  of  a  regular 
essay.  At  present  I  will  only  observe,  that  I 
may  very  possibly,  and  even  probably  fail  in 
my  efforts  at  the  ideal;  and  while  soaring  on 
feeble  wings  too  near  the  warmth  and  bright 
ness  of  greater  spirits,  may  find  myself,  at 
the  end  of  my  excursion,  fallen  below  the. 
common  level  of  existence. 

Sed  virtus  tentasse  bonwn-*,. 


CLIO. 


SONNET. 

COME  forth,  fair  waters,  from  the  classic  spring 
And  let  me  quaff  your  nectar,  that  my  soul 

May  lift  itself  upon  a  bolder  wing, 

And  spurn  awhile  this  being's  base  control. 

How  many  a  cup  of  inspiration  stole 

The  bards  from  out  thy  sparkling  well,  and  sung 
Strains  high,  and  worthy  of  the  kindling  bowl, 

Till  all  Aonia  and  Hesperia  rung. — 

And  on  the  green  isles  of  the  ocean  sprung 
A  wilder  race  of  minstrels,  like  the  storm, 

Which  beats  their  rocky  bulwarks ;  there  they  strung 
A  louder  harp,  and  show'd  a  prouder  form ; 

And  sending  o'er  the  sea  their  song,  our  shore 

Shall  catch  the  sound,  and  silent  sleep  no  more. 


10 


LIBERTY  TO  ATHENS.    ODE. 

THE  flag  of  freedom  floats  once  more 

Around  the  lofty  Parthenon ; 
It  waves,  as  wav'd  the  palm  of  yore, 

In  days  departed  long  and  gone ; 
As  bright  a  glory ,  from  the  skies. 

Pours  down  its  light  around  those  towYs, 
And  once  again  the  Greeks  arise, 

As  in  their  country's  noblest  hours ; 
Their  swords  are  gift  in  virtue's  cause, 

Minerva's  sacred  hill  is  free — 
O !  may  she  keep  her  equal  laws, 

While  man  shall  live,  and  time  shall  b«. 

The  pride  of  all  her  shrines  went  down ; 

The  Goth,  the  Frank,  the  Turk,  had  reft 
The  laurel  from  her  civic  crown  ; 

Her  helm  by  many  a  sword  was  cleft : 
She  lay  among  her  ruins  low — 

Where  grew  the  palm,  the  cypress  rose, 
And  crush'd  and  bruis'd  by  many  a  blow, 

She  cow  Vd  beneath  her  savage  foesj 
But  now  again  she  springs  from  earth, 

Her  loud,  awakening  trumpet  speaks; 
She  rises  in  a  brighter  birth, 

And  sounds  redemption  to  the  Greeks. 


11 

It  is  the  classic  jubilee — 

Their  servile  years  have  roll'd  awayj 
The  clouds  that  hover'd  o'er  them  flee, 

They  hail  the  dawn  of  freedom's  day  j 
From  heaven  the  golden  light  descends, 

The  times  of  old  are  on  the  wing, 
And  glory  there  her  pinion  bends, 

And  beauty  wakes  a  fairer  spring 5 
The  hills  of  Greece,  her  rocks,  her  waves, 

Are  all  in  triumph's  pomp  array'd ; 
A  light  that  points  their  tyrants'  graves, 

Plays  round  each  bold  Athenian's  blade. 

The  Parthenon,  the  sacred  shrine, 

Where  wisdom  held  her  pure  abode : 
The  hill  of  Mars,  where  light  divine 

Proclaim'd  the  true,  but  unknown  God ; 
Where  justice  held  unyielding  sway, 

And  trampled  all  corruption  down, 
And  onward  took  her  lofty  way 

To  reach  at  truth's  unfading  crown : 
The  rock,  where  liberty  was  full, 

Where  eloquence  her  torrents  rolPd, 
And  loud,  against  the  despot's  rule, 

A  knell  the  patriot's  fury  toll'd: 
The  stage,  whereon  the  drama  spake, 

In  tones,  that  seem'd  the  words  of  heav'n, 
Which  made  the  wretch  in  terror  shake, 

As  by  avenging  furies  driv'n : 


12 

The  groves  and  gardens,  where  the  fire 

Of  wisdom,  as  a  fountain,  burn'd, 
And  every  eye,  that  dar'd  aspire 

To  truth,  has  long  in  worship  turn'd  : 
The  halls  and  porticoes,  where  trod 

The  moral  sage,  severe,  unstain'd, 
And  where  the  intellectual  God 

In  all  the  light  of  science  reign'd : 
The  schools,  where  rose  in  symmetry 

The  simple,  but  majestic  pile, 
Where  marble  threw  its  roughness  by, 

To  glow,  to  frown,  to  weep,  to  smile, 
Where  colours  made  the  canvass  live, 

Where  musick  rolFd  her  flood  along, 
And  all  the  charms,  that  art  can  give, 

Were  blent  with  beauty,  love,  and  song: 
The  port,  from  whose  capacious  womb 

Her  navies  took  their  conquering  road, 
The  heralds  of  an  awful  doom 

To  all,  who  would  not  kiss  her  rod : 
On  these  a  dawn  of  glory  springs, 

These  trophies  of  her  brightest  fame; 
Away  the  long-chain?d  city  flings 

Her  weeds,  her  shackles,  and  her  shame; 
Again  her  ancient  souls  awake, 

Harmodius  bares  anew  his  sword; 
Her  sons  in  wrath  their  fetters  break., 

And  freedom  is  their  only  lord. 


THE  GREEK  EMIGRANT'S  SONG. 

Now  launch  the  boat  upon  the  wave — 
The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore — 
I  will  not  live,  a  cow 'ring  slave, 
In  these  polluted  islands,  more — 
Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea, 
There  is  a  better  home  for  me. 

The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore, 

And  out  to  sea  the  streamers  fly — 

My  music  is  the  dashing  roar, 

My  canopy  the  stainless  sky — 

It  bends  above  so  fair  a  blue, 

That  heav'n  seems  opening  on  my  view, 

I  will  not  live,  a  cow'ring  slave, 
Though  all  the  charms  of  life  may  shine 
Around  me,  and  the  land,  the  wave 
And  sky  be  drawn  in  tints  divine — 
Give  low'ring  skies  and  rocks  to  me, 
If  there  my  spirit  can  be  free. 

Sweeter,  than  spicy  gales,  that  blow 
From  orange  groves  with  wooing  breath, 
The  winds  may  from  these  islands  flow — 
But  'tis  an  atmosphere  of  death ; 
The  lotus,  which  transform'd  the  brave 
And  haughty  to  a  willing  slave. 
2 


14 

Softer,  than  Minders  winding  stream., 
The  wave  may  ripple  on  this  coast ; 
And  brighter,  than  the  morning  beam, 
In  golden  swell,  be  round  it  tost — 
Give  me  a  rude  and  stormy  shore, 
So  pow'r  can  never  threat  me  more. 

Brighter,  than  all  the  tales,  they  tell 
Of  eastern  pomp  and  pageantry, 
Our  sunset  skies  in  glory  swell, 
Hung  round  with  glowing  tapestry — 
The  horrors  of  a  wintry  storm 
Swell  brighter  o'er  a  freeman's  form. 

The  spring  may  here  with  autumn  twine. 
And  both  combin'd  may  rule  the  year, 
And  fresh-blown  flow'rs  and  racy  wine 
In  frosted  clusters  still  be  near — 
Dearer  the  wild  and  snowy  hills, 
Where  hale  and  ruddy  freedom  smiles. 

Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea, 

And  ocean's  stormy  vastness  o'er, 

There  is  a  better  home  for  me, 

A  welcomer  and  dearer  shore ; 

There  hands,  and  hearts,  and  souls,  are  twin'd, 

-And  free  the  man,  and  free  the  mind. 


15 


THE  SENATE  OF  CAtLIMACHI.     ODE. 

IN  Callimachrs  halls  are  met 

The  chieftains  of  a  noble  line ; 
The  fathers'  spirit  lingers  yet? 

To  aid  them  in  their  high  design ; 
The  spirit,  that,  in  ancient  days, 

CalPd  forth  the  boldest  Spartan  band, 
With  their  own  shields  and  breasts  to  raise 

A  living  bulwark  round  their  land. 

The  sound,  that  erst  in  Hellas  rang, 

When  war  his  brazen  trumpet  blew, 
When  shields  return'd  the  hollow  clang, 

And  ready  feet  to  battle  flew  ; 
That  sound,  in  Sparta's  vale  is  rais'd; 

The  Turkish  bar  and  bolt  are  riven ; 
The  fire,  that  erst  on  CEta  blaz'd, 

In  bolder  eddies  curls  to  heaven. 

That  flame  o'er  Spartan  valour  burn'd, 

The  brave  three-hundred's  funeral  pyre ! 
Though  now  in  Grecian  earth  inurn'd, 

Their  fame  shall  Grecian  hearts  inspire ; 
It  blazes  on  the  sacred  rock, 

It  flashes  o'er  the  hallow'd  glen ; 
Vdvance,  ye  Greeks !  and  breast  the  shock, 

And  show  the  world,  ye  still  are  men. 


16 

The  sons  of  sires,  who  knew  no  fear, 

When  threat'ning  foemen  scal'd  their  wallsr 
The  light  shall  see,  the  sound  shall  hear, 

And  throng  to  Callimachi's  halls  : 
The  altar  of  their  country  burns ; 

They  pledge  their  oath  to  liberty; 
Their  fathers  answer  from  their  urns, 

"  Be  like  us,  sons,  and  ye  are  free/' 

On  old  Messene's  soil  are  met 

The  sons  of  Aristomenes ; 
Your  ancient  wrongs  and  feuds  forget 

In  wrongs  so  foul,  so  deep,  as  these : 
A  new  Aristodemus  flings 

His  iron  gauntlet  on  the  foe; 
At  once,  a  nation's  valour  springs 

To  deal  the  liberating  blow. 

Who  would  not  glow  in  such  a  cause  ? 

Who — not  exult  in  such  a  name  ? 
Blest  be  the  sword,  each  Maynote  draws 

To  lop  away  his  bonds  and  shame : 
The  fire  is  kindled  in  his  soul ; 

The  spirit  flashes  in  his  eye ; 
A  nation's  blended  voices  roll 

The  vow  of  freedom  to  the  sky. 

Leap  from  your  tombs,  ye  men,  who  stood 

At  Pylse,  and  at  Marathon ; 
The  sire  shall  find  his  boiling  blood 

Throb  in  the  bosom  of  his  son : 


17 

Haste,  demi-gods !  with  shield  and  spear, 
And  hover  o'er  the  coming  fight ; 

O !  let  the  rocks  of  Sparta  hear 

The  gathering  word,  "  Unite !  unite  !v 


ODE  TO  FREEDOM. 

SPIRIT  of  the  days  of  old ! 
Ere  the  generous  heart  grew  cold ; 
When  the  pulse  of  life  was  strong, 
And  the  breath  of  vengeance  long; 
When,  with  jealous  sense,  the  heart 
Felt  the  least  indignant  smart; 
When,  alive  at  every  pore, 
Honour  no  injustice  bore, 
But,  like  lions  on  their  prey, 
Sprang,  and  wash'd  the  stain  away; 
When  the  patriot's  blood  was  shed 
At  the  shrine,  where  valour  bled ; 
When  the  bard,  with  kindling  song, 
Rous'd  them  to  avenge  their  wrong. 
When  the  thought  of  insult,  deep 
In  the  heart,  could  never  sleep, 
But,  though  cherishM  many  a  day, 
Still,  at  last,  it  burst  its  way, 
Rolling  with  impetuous  tide, 
Till  the  foeman  crouch  ?d  or  died. 
2* 


18 

Spirit  of  the  days  of  yore ! 
When  the  lofty  hero  bore, 
On  his  brow,  and  on  his  crest, 
Signs  of  thought,  that  could  not  rest; 
When  the  eager,  active  soul, 
Spurn'd,  and  broke  through  all  control,. 
Nature  was  his  only  rule, 
Feeling  taught  his  only  school ; 
When  his  vigorous  frame  was  nursM^ 
By  no  arts,  that  poison,  cursM ; 
When  his  heart  was  firm  to  will, 
And  his  hand  was  strong  to  kill ; 
When  he  sternly  struggled  through 
All,  that  he  resolved  to  do ; 
When  he  reck'd  notr  if  his  path 
SmiPd  in  peace,  or  frown'd  in  wrath  5 
When  he  started  at  the  call, 
Country  gave,  and  left  his  all, 
Onward  trod  to  front  the  foe, 
Nerv'd  to  deal  the  deadly  blow  5 
When  the  fight,  to  him,  was  play  5 
When  he  car'd  not,  if  his  way 
Led  to  victory,  or  the  grave — 
Either  fate  becomes  the  brave  i 
Days  of  strength  gigantic !  fled, 
Valour  sleeps,  and  fame  is  dead. 

Spirit  of  the  bold  and  free! 
Mountain  breath  of  liberty ; 


19 

Parent  of  a  hardy  breed, 

Fiery  as  the  Arab  steed ; 

Master  of  the  mighty  charm; 

Knitter  of  the  brawny  arm, 

Of  the  knee  that  cannot  kneel, 

Heart  of  oak,  and  nerve  of  steel  f 

Ruler  of  the  craggy  wild; 

On  a  throne  of  granite  pil'd, 

Like  a  giant  altar,  thou 

Biddest  all,  who  love  thee,  bow, 

Bend  the  neck,  and  fold  the  knee. 

To  no  conqueror,  but  thee ; 

In  that  hold  thou  bidst  them  wait, 

Till  some  proud,  ambitious  state, 

Marching  in  the  pomp  of  war, 

Spread  its  flaunting  banner  far, 

And  with  high  and  threat'ning  breath, 

Call  to  slavery,  or  death ; 

Then  thou  bidst  them  gird  the  brand, 

Plant  the  foot,  and  raise  the  hand, 

Draw  the  panting  nostril  wide, 

And  with  stern  and  stately  stride, 

Forward,  like  the  eagle's  wing, 

On  the  proud  invader  spring, 

And  in  one  resistless  rush, 

All  his  pow'r  and  splendour  crush. 

Spirit  of  the  great  and  good  I 
Such  as,  in  Athenae,  stood, 


20 

Stern  injustice,  on  the  rock, 
Moveless  at  the  people's  shock, 
And  when  civil  tempest  rag'd, 
And  intestine  war  was  wag'd, 
With  serene,  but  awful  sway, 
RolFd  the  madd'ning  tide  away; 
Such  as  met  at  Pylse's  wall, 
Ere  that  glorious  freedom's  fall — 
When  the  life  of  Greece  was  young, 
Like  the  sun  from  ocean  sprung, 
And  the  warm  and  lifted  soul 
Marching  onward  to  its  goal : 
Such  as  at  those  holy  gates, 
Bulwark  of  the  banded  states, 
With  the  hireling  Persian  strove, 
In  the  high  and  ardent  love, 

'   Souls  that  cannot  stoop  to  shame, 
Bear  to  freedom's  sacred  name : 
Such  as  with  the  Saxon  fle^. 
Ever  to  their  country  true, 
From  the  rock,  the.  wood,  the  fen, 
From  the  cavern  and  the  den, 
Eager  to  the  field  of  fight, 
Like  a  cloud  that  comes  by  night, 
Tore  away,  at  once,  the  chain 
Fasten'd  by  the  robber  Dane, 
Drove  him  headlong  from  that  shore, 

"And  embalm'd  his  host  in  gore; 
Then  secur'd  their  country's  cause, 
With  a  bond  of  equal  laws, 


21 

And  bequeath'd  the  sacred  trust, 
When  their  bones  should  fall  in  dust. 
To  that  island  race,  who  bear 
Light,  and  warmth,  and  glory,  where 
Ocean's  unchained  billows  roll 
From  the  mid-day  to  the  pole ; 
And  to  that  more  daring  shoot, 
Bent  with  flow'rs,  and  promis'd  fruit, 
Who  have  dar'd,  beyond  the  sea, 
To  assert  their  liberty, 
Who,  upon  the  forted  hill, 
BravM  a  tyrant  father's  will, 
Down  the  bloody  gauntlet  threw, 
Grasp'd  and  snapped  the  links  in  two, 
And  unshackled  ventur'd  forth, 
Noblest  of  the  sons  of  earth. 

Spirit  of  the  stirring  blood, 
Rolling  in  an  even  flood 
Through  the  hale  and  riiddy  cheeky 
Scorner  of  the  pale  and  weak, 
Who  in  festering  cities  crawl, 
Victims  of  a  sordid  thrall, 
And  for  ever  draw  their  breath, 
Lingering  on  the  brink  of  death : 
But  to  thee  the  giant  limb, 
Strong  to  leap,  to  run,  to  swim, 
Strong  to  guide  the  plough  or  brand, 
Guard,  or  free,  or  till  their  land^ 


22 

But  to  thee  the  godlike  frame, 
Such  as  puts  our  dwarfs  to  shame, 
Firm,  erect,  and  fair,  as  first 
Adam  from  his  Maker  burst, 
And  exulting  leap'd  to  see 
His  angelic  symmetry ; 
But  to  thee  the  eagle  eye, 
Liftecfto  its  parent  sky, 
Drinking  in  the  living  stream, 
And  again,  with  ardent  beam, 
Sending  all  its  fires  abroad, 
Like  the  language  of  a  god ; 
But  to  thee  the  mighty  brow, 
Fix?d  to  dare,  unus'd  to  bow, 
Now  in  placid  kindness  bright, 
Like  a  rock  in  evening's  light, 
Then  with  angers  wrinkled  frown, 
Gather'd  eyebrows  lowering  down, 
Awful,  as  the  storm,  whose  fold 
Round  a  column'd  Alp  is  rolPd  j 
But  to  thee  the  mind  of  fire, 
Toil  can  never  damp,  or  tire, 
Glancing,  like  a  sun-beam,  through 
Nature  with  a  spirit's  view, 
And  from  out  its  choicest  store, 
In  its  fulness  flowing  o'er, 
Sending,  like  a  bolt,  the  flow 
Of  thought  upon  the  crowd  below. 


Healthful  Spirit !  at  this  hour, 

There  are  haunts,  where  thou  hast  pow?r, 

Haunts,  where  thou  shalt  ever  be, 

As  thou  ever  hast  been,  free  5 

Where  the  stream  of  life  is  led 

Stainless  in  its  virgin  bed, 

And  its  magic  fire  is  still 

Blazing  on  its  holy  hill. 

There  are  mountains,  there  are  storms, 

Where  thou  feed'st  thy  hives  and  swarms, 

Whence  thou  send'st  them,  to  restore 

Virtue,  where  it  dwells  no  more  5 ' 

Safe  in  those  embattled  rocks, 

Life  its  native  vigour  locks, 

And  its  kindling  energy 

Lives,  and  moves,  and  feels  in  theej 

In  those  bulwarks  is  our  trust, 

For  the  boundless  pow'r  is  just, 

Nor  wilt  thou,  from  earth,  arise, 

Link'd  with  justice,  to  the  slues, 

But  below,  with  mercy,  dwell, 

Till  the  world  shall  hear  its  knell. 


SPIRIT  OF  FREEDOM  f  who  thy  home  hast  made 

In  wilds  and  wastes,  where  wealth  has  never  trod, 
^  Nor  bowM  her  coward  head  before  her  god, 
The  sordid  deity  of  fraudful  trade ; 


24 

Where  pow'r  has  never  rear'd  his  iron  brow, 
And  glar'd  his  glance  of  terror,  nor  has  blown 
The  madd'ning  trump  of  battle,  nor  has  flown 

His  blood-thirst  eagles ;  where  no  flatt'rers  bow, 
And  kiss  the  foot  that  spurns  them ;  where  no  throne. 

Bright  with  the  spoils  from  nations  wrested,  tow'rs, 
The  idol  of  a  slavish  mob,  who  herd, 

Where  largess  feeds  their  sloth  with  golden  show'rs. 
And  thousands  hang  upon  one  tyrant's  word — 

SPIRIT  OP  FREEDOM  !  thou,  who  dwelPst  alone, 
Unblench'd,  unyielding,  on  the  storm-beat  shore, 
And  find'st  a  stirring  music  in  its  roar, 

And  look'st  abroad  on  earth  and  sea,  thy  own — 
Far  from  the  city's  noxious  hold,  thy  foot, 

Fleet  as  the  wild  deer,  bounds,  as  if  its  breath 

Were  but  the  rankest,  foulest  steam  of  death; 
Its  soil  were  but  the  dunghill,  where  the  root 

Of  every  pois'nous  weed  and  baleful  tree 
Grew  vigorously  and  deeply,  till  their  shade 
Had  chok'd  and  kill'd  each  wholesome  plant,  and  1 

In  rottenness  the  flow'r  of  LIBERTY — 

Thou  flyest  to  the  desert,  and  its  sands 

Become  thy  welcome  shelter,  where  the  pure 
Wind  gives  its  freshness  to  thy  roving  bands, 

And  languid  weakness  finds  its  only  cure ; 
Where  few  their  wants,  and  bounded  their  desires, 

And  life  all  spring  and  action,  they  display 
Man's  boldest  flights,  and  highest,  warmest  fires. 

And  beauty  wears  her  loveliest  array — 


25 

Thou  climb'st  the  mountain's  crag,  and  with  the  snows 
Dwell'st  high  above  the  slothful  plains ;  the  rock 
Thy  iron  bed;  the  avalanche's  shock 

Thou  sternly  breastest :  hunger,  cold  and  toil 

Harden  thy  steel'd  nerves,  till  the  frozen  soil, 
The  gnarled  oak,  the  torrent,  as  it  flows 

In  thunder  down  its  gulph,  are  not  more  rude, 
More  hardy,  more  resistless,  than  thy  force, 
When  wak'd  to  madness,  in  thy  headlong  course, 

Thou  rushest  from  thy  wintry  solitude, 
And  sweepest  frighted  nations'  on  thy  path, 
A  whirlwind  in  the  fury  of  thy  wrath, 

And  with  one  curl  of  thy  indignant  frown, 

Castest  the  pride  of  plumed  warriors  down, 

And  bear'st  them  onward,  like  the  storm-fill'd  wave. 
In  mingled  ruin  to  their  bloody  grave. — 

SPIRIT  OF  FREEDOM  !  I  would  with  thee  dwell, 
Whether  on  Afric's  sand,  or  Norway's  crags, 

Or  Kansa's  prairies,  for  thou  lov'st  them  well, 
And  there  thy  boldest  daring  never  flags ; 

Or  I  would  launch  with  thee  upon  the  deep, 
And  like  the  petrel  make  the  wave  my  home, 
And  careless,  as  the  sportive  sea-bird,  roam ; 

Or  with  the  chamois,  on  the  Alp  would  leap, 
And  feel  myself,  upon  the  snow-clad  height, 
A  portion  of  that  undimm'd  flow  of  light, 

No  mist  nor  cloud  can  darken — O !  with  thee, 
Spirit  of  freedom !  deserts,  mountains,  storms. 
Would  wear  a  glow  of  beauty,  and  their  form,? 
3 


26 

Would  soften  into  loveliness,  and  be 
Dearest  of  earth,  for  there  my  soul  is  free. 


NEW-ENGLAND. 

HAIL  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread^ 

Our  fondest  boast; 
The  sepulchre  of  mighty  dead, 
The  truest  hearts  that  ever  bled, 
Who  sleep  on  glory's  brightest  bed, 

A  fearless  host: 

No  slave  is  here — our  unchain'd  feet 
Walk  freely,  as  the  waves  that  beat 

Our  coast. 

Our  fathers  cross'd  the  ocean's  wave 

To  seek  this  shore ; 
They  left  behind  the  coward  slave 
To  welter  in  his  living  grave; 
Writh  hearts  unbent,  high,  steady,  brave, 

They  sternly  bore 

Such  toils,  as  meaner  souls  had  quelPd ; 
But  souls  like  these,  such  toils  impell'd 

To  soar. 

Hail  to  the  morn,  when  first  they  stood 

On  Bunker's  height ; 
And  fearless  stemm'd  the  invading  flood. 


27 

And  wrote  our  dearest  rights  in  blood, 
And  mow'd  in  ranks  the  hireling  brood, 

In  desperate  fight : 
O !  'twas  a  proud,  exulting  day, 
For  ev'n  our  fallen  fortunes  lay 

In  light. 

There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 

No  dearer  shore ; 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free ; 
The  home,  the  port  of  liberty 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be, 

Till  time  is  o'er. 
Ere  I  forget  to  think  upon 
My  land,  shall  mother  curse  the  son 

She  bore. 

Thou  art  the  firm,  unshaken  rock, 

On  which  we  rest ; 
And  rising  from  thy  hardy  stock, 
Thy  sons  the  tyrant's  frown  shall  mock, 
And  slavery's  galling  chains  unlock, 

And  free  the  oppress'd : 
All,  who  the  wreath  of  freedom  twine, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  vine 

Are  blest. 

We  love  thy  rude  and  rocky  shore, 

And  here  we  stand — 
Let  foreign  navies  hasten  o'er, 


28 

And  on  our  heads  their  fury  pour, 
And  peal  their  cannon's  loudest  roar, 

And  storm  our  land : 
They  still  shall  find,  our  lives  are  giv'n 
To  die  for  home ; — and  leant  on  heav'n 

Our  hand. 


NAVAL  ODE. 

OUR  walls  are  on  the  sea, 

And  they  ride  along  the  wave, 
Mann'd  with  sailors  bold  and  free, 

And  the  lofty  and  the  brave 
Hoist  their  flag  to  the  sport  of  the  gale$ 
With  an  even  march  they  sweep 
O'er  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
And  their  order  trimly  keep, 
As  they  saiL 

Though  so  gallantly  we  ride, ' 

Yet  we  do  not  seek  the  fight  ; 
We  have  justice  on  our  side, 

'And  we  battle  in  our  right, 
For  our  homes,  and  our  altars,  and  sires 
Then  we  kindle  in  our  cause, 
And  awhile  a  solemn  pause — 
When  the  cannon's  iron  jaws 
Spout  their  fires. 


29 

We  abhor  the  waste  of  life, 

And  the  massacre  of  war ; 
We  detest  the  brutal  strife 

In  the  van  of  glory's  car; 
But  we  never  will  shrink  from  the  foe :. 
This,  when  battle's  lightning  runs 
Through  his  horror-speaking  guns. 
And  his  brazen  thunder  stuns, 
He  shall  know. 

We  have  met  them  on  the  deep, 

With  Decatur  and  with  Hull, 
Where  our  fallen  comrades  sleep 

In  their  glory's  proudest  full ; 
For  our  homes  we  will  meet  them  again : 
Let  their  boasted  navies  frown, 
As  they  proudly  bear  them  down; 
We  will  conquer,  burn,  or  drown, 

On  the  main. 

\ 

We,  too,  have  hearts  of  oak, 

And  the  hour  of  strife  may  come, 
With  its  hurricane  of  smoke, 

Hissing  ball  and  bursting  bomb, 
And  the  death-shot  may  launch  through  our  crew; 
But  our  spirits  feel  no  dread, 
And  we  bear  our  ship  ahead, 
For  we  know  that  honour's  bed 
Is  our  due. 

3* 


30 

Then  come  on,  ye  gallant  tars ! 

With  your  matches  in  your  hand, 
And  parade  beneath  our  stars 

With  a  free  and  noble  stand, 
As  you  wait  for  the  moment  of  death . 
Hark  the  word — the  foe  is  nigh, 
And  at  once  their  war-dogs  fly, 
But  with  bosoms  throbbing  high, 
Yield  your  breath.. 

Do  your  duty,  gallant  boys  I ' 

And  you  homeward  shall  return 
To  partake  your  country's  joys, 

When. the  lights  of  triumph  burn,, 
And  the  warm  toast  is  drank  to  the  brave 
Then,  when  country  calls  again, 
Be  your  march  along  the  main, 
And  in  glory  spread  her  reign 
O'er  the  wave. 


A  PLATONIC  BACCHANAL  SONG 

FIJ.L  high  the  bowl  of  life  for  me — 
Let  roses  mantle  round  its  brim, 

While  heart  is.  warm,  and  thought  is  free, 
Ere  beauty's  light  is  waning  dim — 

Fill  high  with  brightest  draughts  of  souL> 
And  let  it  flow  with  Deling  o'er, 


31 

And  love,  the  sparkling  cup,  he  stole 
From  heav'n,  to  give  it  briskness,  pour. 

O !  fill  the  bowl  of  life  for  me, 

And  wreath  its  dripping  brim  with  flow'rsr 

And  I  will  drink,  as  lightly  flee 
Our  early,  unreturning  hours. 

Fill  high,  the  bowl  of  life  with  wine, 

That  swell'd  the  grape  of  Eden's  grove,. 
Ere  human  life,  in  its  decline, 

Had  strow'd  with  thorns  the  path  of  love — 
Fill  high  from  virtue's  crystal  fount, 

That  springs  beneath  the  throne  of  heav'n. 
And  sparkles  brightly  o'er  the  mount, 

From  which  our  fallen  souls  were  driven. 
O !  fill  the  bowl  of  life  with  wine, 

The  wine,  that  charm'd  the  gods  above^ 
And  round  its  brim  a  garland  twine, 

That  blossom'd  in  the  bow'r  of  love. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  of  life  with  spirit, 

Drawn  from  the  living  sun  of  soul, 
And  let  the  wing  of  genius  bear  it, 

Deep-glowing,  like  a  kindled  coal — 
Fill  high  from  that  ethereal  treasure, 

And  let  me  quaff  the  flowing  fire, 
And  know  awhile  the  boundless  pleasure. 

That  heaven-lit  fancy  can  inspire. 
O !  fill  the  bowl  of  life  with  spirit, 

And  give  it  brimming  o'er  to  me, 


32 

And  as  I  quaff,  I  seem  to  inherit 
The  glow  of  immortality. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  of  life  with  thought 

From  that  unfathomable  well, 
Which  sages  long  and  long  have  sought 

To  sound,  but  none  its  depths  can  tell- 
Fill  high  from  that  dark  stainless  wave, 

Which  mounts  and  flows  for  ever  on, 
And  rising  proudly  o'er  the  grave, 

There  finds  its  noblest  course  begun. 
O !  fill  the  bowl  of  life  with  thought, 

And  I  will  drink  the  bumper  up, 
And  find,  whatever  my  wish  had  sought. 

In  that,  the  purest,  sweetest  cup. 


HERE  ?s  to  her,  who  wore 
The  myrtle  wreath,  that  bound  me ; 

Here  's  to  her,  who  bore 
The  twine  of  bay,  that  crown'd  me — 

O!  had  not  her  light 
So  brightly  shone  upon  me, 

Still  the  cloud  of  night 
Had  darkly  brooded  on  me ; 

There  was  in  her  eye 
A  spirit,  that  inspired  me$ 

Still  to  do  or  die, 
The  electric  sparkle  fir'd  me; 


33  . 

And  though  the  ice  of  death 
Should  chill  the  heart  within  me^ 

The  music  of  her  breath 
Back  to  life  again  would  win  me; 

So  here  ?s  to  her,  who  wore 
The  myrtle  wreath,  that  bound  me ; 

The  girl,  who  kindly  bore 
The  twine  of  bay,  that  crown'd  me. 

No  more  the  iron  chain 
Of  doubt  and  fear  enthrals  me; 

I  lift  my  wing  again, 
For  ''tis  her  voice  that  calls  me ; 

Still  higher,  higher  still, 
In  search  of  glory  soaring, 

I  feel  my  bosom  thrill 
To  the  song  her  voice  is  pouring ; 

And  though  I  stretch  my  flight, 
Where  heav'n  alone  is  o'er  me, 

I  see  her  form  of  light 
Still  floating  on  before  me : 

O !  when  foes  the  direst  move 
In  columns  to  assail  us, 

Let  us  hear  the  voice  of  love, 
And  our  courage  cannot  fail  us : 

So  Iiere  7s  to  her,  &c. 

And  when  my  drowsy  soul 
A  heedless  moment  slumbers. 


34 

Away  the  vapours  roll 
At  the  magic  of  her  numbers  ; 

Back  to  life  again  I  start, 
At  her  thrilling  summons  waking, 

Ev'ry  link,  that  bound  my  heart 
Down  to  earth,  indignant  breaking; 

Then  I  follow,  where  she  flies, 
Like  a  shooting  star,  before  me, 

And  her  fascinating  eyes 
Shed  their  fire  hi  flashes  o'er  me : 

O !  cold  the  heart,  could  sleep, 
When  her  silver  trumpet  callM  it, 

And  the  soul,  that  would  not  leap, 
When  her  flow'ry  chain  enthralled  it : 

So  here  's  to  her,  who  wore 
The  myrtle  wreath,  that  bound  me  ; 

The  girl,  who  kindly  bore 
The  twine  of  bay,  that  crown'd  me. 


THOU  art  endeared  to  me  by  all 

The  ties  of  kindred  minds, 
And  thou  hast  twin'd  my  heart  hi  all 

The  chains  that  beauty  binds  5 
The  man,  who  could  deceive  thee, 

And  when  the  prize  was,  won, 
Could  ruin,  scorn,  and  leave  thee, 

Must  have  a  heart  of  stone. 


3d 

For  but  one  look  of  kindness  giv'n 

By  thee,  my  heart  would  brave 
The  coldest,  darkest  frowns  of  heav'n, 

The  terrors  of  the  grave: 
O .'  death  cannot  affright  me, 

When  thou  art  smiling  by  5 
f  ask  no  star  to  light  me, 

But  the  sparkle  of  thine  eye. 

But  all  thy  bloom  and  loveliness 

How  soon  will  fade  "away ! 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  comeliness 

Will  moulder  into  clay  : 
O!  when  thy  charms  have  taken  wing, 

And  all  thy  light  is  gone, 
How  fondly  still  my  heart  would  cling 

To  thee,  and  thee  alone ! 


CONSUMPTION. 

„ 

1  HERE  is  a  sweetness  in  woman's  decay, 

When  the  light  of  beauty  is  fading  away, 

When  the  bright  enchantment  of  youth  is  gone, 

And  the  tint  that  glow'd,  and  the  eye  that  shone 

And  darted  around  its  glance  of  power, 

And  the  lip  that  vied  with  the  sweetest  flower, 

That  ever  in  PaestumV-  garden  blew, 

Or  ever  was  steep'd  in  fragrant  dew, 

*  Biferique  rosaria  Fasti.— Virg. 


36 

When  all,  that  was  bright  and  fair,  is  fled, 
But  the  loveliness  lingering  round  the  dead. 

O !  there  is  a  sweetness  in  beauty's  close, 
Like  the  perfume  scenting  the  wither'd  rose ; 
For  a  nameless  charm  around  her  plays, 
And  her  eyes  are  kindled  with  hallow'd  rays, 
And  a  veil  of  spotless  purity 
Has  mantled  her  cheek  with  its  heavenly  dye, 
Like  a  cloud  whereon  the  queen  of  night 
Has  pour'd  her  softest  tint  of  light ; 
And  there  is  a  blending  of  white  and  blue^ 
Where  the  purple  blood  is  melting  through 
The  snow  of  her  pale  and  tender  cheek; 
And  there  are  tones,  that  sweetly  speak 
Of  a  spirit,  who  longs  for  a  purer  day, 
And  is  ready  to  wing  her  flight  away. 

In  the  flush  of  youth  and  the  spring  of  feeling. 
When  life,  like  a  sunny  stream,  is  stealing 
Its  silent  steps  through  a  flowery  path, 
And  all  the  endearments,  that  pleasure  hath, 
Are  pour'd  from  her  full,  o'erflowing  horn, 
When  the  rose  of  enjoyment  conceals  no  thorn. 
In  her  lightness  of  heart,  to  the  cheery  song 
The  maiden  may  trip  in  the  dance  along, 
And  think  of  the  passing  moment,  that  lies, 
Like  a  fairy  dream,  in  her  dazzled  eyes, 
And  yield  to  the  present,  that  charms  around 
With  all  that  is  lovely  in  sight  and  sound, 


37 

Where  a  thousand  pleasing  phantoms  flit, 

With  the  voice  of  mirth,  and  the  burst  of  wit. 

And  the  music  that  steals  to  the  bosom's  core. 

And  the  heart  in  its  fulness  flowing  o'er 

With  a  few  big  drops,  that  are  soon  repress'd. 

For  short  is  the  stay  of  grief  in  her  breast : 

In  this  enliven'd  and  gladsome  hour 

The  spirit  may  burn  with  a  brighter  pow'r; 

But  dearer  the  calm  and  quiet  day, 

When  the  heaven-sick  soul  is  stealing  away. 

And  when  her  sun  is  low  declining, 
And  life  wears  out  with  no  repining, 
And  the  whisper,  that  tells  of  early  death, 
Is  soft  as  the  west  wind's  balmy  breath, 
When  it  comes,  at  the  hour  of  still  repose, 
To  sleep  in  the  breast  of  the  wooing  rose; 
And  the  lip,  that  swell'd  with  a  living  glow, 
Is  pale  as  a  curl  of  new-fall 'n  snow ; 
And  her  cheek,  like  the  Parian  stone,  is  fair, 
But  the  hectic  spot  that  flushes  there, 
When  the  tide  of  life,  from  its  secret  dwelling, 
In  a  sudden  gush,  is  deeply  swelling, 
And  giving  a  tinge  to  her  icy  lips, 
Like  the  crimson  rose's  brightest  tips, 
As  richly  red,  and  as  transient  too, 
As  the  clouds  in  autumn's  sky  of  blue, 
That  seem  like  a  host  of  glory  met 
To  honour  the  sun  at  his  golden  set  : 
4 


38 

O !  then,  when  the  spirit  is  taking  wing, 
How  fondly  her  thoughts  to  her  dear  one  cling, 
As  if  she  would  blend  her  soul  with  his 
In  a  deep  and  long  imprinted  kiss;        « 
So,  fondly  the  panting  camel  flies, 
Where  the  glassy  vapour  cheats  his  eyes, 
And  the  dove  from  the  falcon  seeks  her  nest, 
And  the  infant  shrinks  to  its  mother's  breast. 
And  though  her  dying  voice  be  mute, 
Or  faint  as  the  tones  of  an  unstrung  lute, 
And  though  the  glow  from  her  cheek  be  fled, 
And  her  pale  lips  cold  as  the  marble  dead, 
Her  eye  still  beams  unwonted  fires 
With  a  woman's  love  and  a  saint's  desires, 
And  her  last  fond,  lingering  look  is  giv'n 
To  the  love  she  leaves,  and  then  to  heav'n, 
As  if  she  would  bear  that  love  away 
To  a  purer  world  and  a  brighter  day. 


TO  THE  HOUSTONIA  CERULEA/ 

How  often,  the  modest  flower ! 
I  mark  thy  tender  blossoms,  where  they  spread, 

x  A  very  delicate  and  humble  flower  of  New-England,  blos 
soming  early  in  spring,  and  often  covering  large  patches  of 
turf  with  a  white  or  pale  blue  carpet.  The  botanical  allusions 
in  this  piece  are  repeated,  and  perhaps  it  will  not  be  fully  re 
lished  by  those,  who  have  not  examined  the  structure  of  the 
flower. 


39 

Along  the  turfy  slope,  their  starry  bed. 
Hung  heavy  with  the  shower. 

Thou  comest  in  the  dawn 
Of  nature's  promise,  when  the  sod  of  May 
Is  speckled  with  its  earliest  array; 

And  strow'st  with  bloom  the  lawn. 

'Tis  but  a  few  brief  days, 
I  saw  the  green  hill  in  its  fold  of  snow ; 
But  now  thy  slender  stems  arise,  and  blow 

In  April's  fitful  rays. 

I  love  thee,  delicate 

And  humble,  as  thou  art ;  thy  dress  of  white, 
And  blue,  and  all  the  tints  where  these  unite, 

Or  wrapp'd  in  spiral  plait, 

Or  to  the  glancing  sun, 

Shining  through  chequer'd  cloud,  and  dewy  shower, 
Unfolding  thy  fair  cross. — Yes,  tender  flower, 

Thy  blended  colours  run, 

/ 

And  meet  in  harmony, 

Commingling,  like  the  rainbow  tints;  thy  urn 
Of  yellow  rises  with  its  graceful  turn, 

And  as  a  golden  eye, 

Its  softly  swelling  throat 
.Shines  in  the  centre  of  thy  circle,  where 


40 

Thy  downy  stigma  rises  slim  and  fair. 
And  catches,  as  they  float, 

A  cloud  of  living  air, 
The  atom  seeds  of  fertilizing  dust, 
That  hover,  as  thy  lurking  anthers  burst  5 

And  O !  how  purely  there 

Thy  snowy  circle,  ray'd 

With  crosslets,  bends  its  pearly  whiteness  round. 
And  how  thy  spreading  lips  are  trimly  bound. 

With  such  a  mellow  shade, 

As  in  the  vaulted  blue, 
Deepens  at  starry  midnight,  or  grows  pale, 
When  mantled  in  the  full  moon's  silver  veil. 

That  calm  ethereal  hue. 

I  love  thee,  modest  flower ! 
And  I  do  find  it  happiness  to  tread, 
With  careful  step,  along  thy  studded  bed. 

At  morning's  freshest  hour, 

Or  when  the  day  declines, 
And  evening  comes  with  dewy  footsteps  on,. 
And  now  his  golden  hall  of  slumber  won. 

The  setting  sun  resigns 

His  empire  of  the  sky, 
\nd  the  cool  breeze  awakes  her  fluttering  train — 


41 

I  walk  through  thy  parterres,  and  not  in  vain, 
For  to  my  downward  eye, 

Sweet  flower !  thou  telFst  how  hearts 
As  pure  and  tender  as  thy  leaf,  as  low 
And  humble  as  thy  stem,  will  surely  know 

The  joy,  that  peace  imparts. 


THE  FRENCHMAN'S  DARLING.* 

THE  rose  may  sparkle  in  the  morn 
And  blush  and  brighten  on  its  thorn ; 
The  gaudy  tulip  proudly  spread 
Its  glories  o'er  the  enamell'd  bed ; 
The  iris  imitate  the  bow, 
That  sunbeams  on  a  tempest  throw ; 
All  these  may  shine  around — but  yet 
I  love  my  darling  mignonette. 

I  ask  no  deep-encrimson'd  flow'r 
From  India's  never  fading  bow'r ; 
No  lotus,t  where  it  closely  weaves 
The  Ganges  with  its  azure  leaves ; 
I  ask  no  pensive  bud  of  woe,! 
That  gives  the  night  its  wreath  of  snow; 

*  Reseda  Odorata — the  Mignonette, 
t  Nymphea  Cerulea — the  Sacred  Lotus, 
t  Nyctanthes  Arbor-tristis — Night  Jessamine 
4* 


All  these  may  have  a  charm — but  yet 
Thy  charm  is  more,  sweet  mignonette, 

No  lily,*  that  with  gold-speck?d  urn 
Seems  like  a  chandelier  to  burn, 
Where  wide  Savanna's  waters  flow 
Beneath  a  forest  bow'r  of  snow  ;t 
No  palm  with  bending  tufts  of  fire, 
No  spic'd  vanilla  I  desire ; 
These  you  may  fondly  twine — but  yet 
I  fondlier  twine  my  mignonette. 

The  Scot  may  love  his  thistle  down, 
Its  prickly  leaves,  and  purple  crown ; 
And  Erin  on  her  shamrock  smile, 
The  beauty  of  her  emerald  isle ; 
The  holly  twine  its  glossy  braid, 
A  starry  wreath  for  Albion's  head : 
We  love  the  modest  violette^ 
And  dearer  still  the  mignonette. 

*  L  ilium  Super  bum. 
f  Magnolia  Grandiflora. 

t  Viola  Tricolor— the  Pansy  Violet.— The  flower  of  Napo 
leon, 


43 

A  TULIP  blossom'd,  one  morning  in  May, 

By  the  side  of  a  sanded  alley ; 
Its  leaves  were  dress'd  in  a  rich  array, 
Like  the  clouds  at  the  earliest  dawn  of  day, 

When  the  mist  rolls  over  the  valley : 
The  dew  had  descended  the  night  before. 

And  lay  in  its  velvet  bosom, 
And  its  spreading  urn  was  flowing  o'er, 
And  the  crystal  heightened  the  tints,  it  bore 

On  its  yellow  and  crimson  blossom. 

A  sweet  red-rose,  on  its  bending  thorn, 

Its  bud  was  newly  spreading, 
And  the  flowing  effulgence  of  early  morn 

Its  beams  on  its  breast  was  shedding; 
The  petals  were  heavy  with  dripping  tears, 

That  twinkled  in  pearly  brightness, 
And  the  thrush  in  its  covert  thrill'd  my  ears 

With  a  varied  song  of  lightness. 

A  lily,  in  mantle  of  purest  snow, 

Hung  over  a  silent  fountain, 
And  the  wave  in  its  calm  and  quiet  flow, 
DisplayM  its  silken  leaves  below, 
.    Like  the  drift  on  the  windy  mountain ; 
It  bow'd  with  the  moisture,  the  night  had  wept, 

When  the  stars  shone  over  the  billow, 
And  white-wing'd  spirits  their  vigils  kept, 
Where  beauty  and  innocence  sweetly  slept 

On  its  pure  and  thornless  pillow. 


44 

A  hyacinth  lifted  its  purple  bell 

From  the  slender  leaves  around  it ; 
It  curv'd  its  cup  in  a  flowing  swell, 

And  a  starry  circle  crown'd  it ; 
The  deep  blue  tincture,  that  robM  it,  seem'd 

The  gloomiest  garb  of  sorrow, 
As  if  on  its  eye  no  brightness  beam'd, 
And  it  never  in  clearer  moments  dream'd, 

Of  a  fair  and  a  calm  to-morrow. 

A  daisy  peep'd  from  the  tufted  sod, 

In  its  bashful  modesty  drooping; 
Where  often  the  morn,  as  I  lightly  trod, 
In  bounding  youth,  the  fallow  clod, 

Had  over  it  seen  me  stooping; 
It  look'd  in  my  face  with  a  dewy  eye 

From  its  ring  of  ruby  lashes, 
And  it  seem'd,  that  a  brighter  was  lurking  by. 
The  fires  of  whose  ebony  lustre  fly, 

Like  summer's  dazzling  flashes^ 

And  the  wind,  with  a  soft  and  silent  wing, 

Urush'd  over  this  wild  of  flowers, 
And  it  waken'd  the  birds,  who  began  to  sing 
Their  hymn  to  the  season  of  love  and  spring, 

In  the  shade  of  the  bending  bowers; 
And  it  cull'd  their  full  nectareous  store, 

In  its  lightly  fluttering  motion,      » 
As  when  from  Hybla's  murmuring  shore 
The  evening  breeze  from  her  thyme-beds  bore 

Their  sweetness  over  the  ocean. 


46 

I  HAD  found  out  a  sweet  green  spot, 
Where  a  lily  was  blooming  fair  5 
The  din  of  the  city  disturb'd  it  not, 
But  the  spirit,  that  shades  the  quiet  cot 
With  its  wings  of  love,  was  there. 

I  found  that  lily's  bloom, 

When  the  day  was  dark  and  chill ; 
It  smiPd,  like  a  star,  in  the  misty  gloom, 
And  it  sent  abroad  a  soft  perfume, 

Which  is  floating  around  me  still. 

I  sat  by  the  lily's  bell, 

And  I  watchM  it  many  a  day; 
The  leaves,  that  rose  in  a  flowing  swell, 
Grew  faint  and  dim,  then  droop'd  and  fell, 

And  the  flower  had  flown  away. 

I  look'd  where  the  leaves  were  laid, 

In  withering  paleness,  by ; 
And,  as  gloomy  thoughts  stole  on  me,  said, 
There  is  many  a  sweet  and  blooming  maid. 

Who  will  soon  as  dimly  die. 


ADIEU  !  fair  flow'r,  though  frail : 
I  gaz'd  on  thee  awhile, 
And  thought  I  saw  thee  smile, 

And  woo  the  passing  gale  5 


46 

And  thou  didst  shine,  the  while, 
In  early  beauty  bright, 
And  in  thy  maiden  light 

Who  would  have  dream'd  of  guile  ? 

The  canker-worm  will  blight 
Thy  colours,  now  so  gay, 
And  they  will  pass  away, 

Like  drops  that  fall  by  night, 

Before  the  eye  of  day : 
It  nestles  in  thy  core, 
And  thou  wilt  charm  no  more 

The  winds  that  round  thee  play ; 

But  all  thy  sweetness  o'er, 

Thy  leaves  will  droop  and  fall, 
And  darkness  spread  its  pall 

Where  all  was  bright  before. — 

And  when  thy  beauty  all 
Has  faded,  they  will  turn 
Away,  and  coldly  spurn 

Thy  love,  and  thou  wilt  call 

Unnotic'd,  and  wilt  mourn, 
That  in  the  flush  of  spring,. 
When  hope  was  on  the  wing. 

And  virtue,  from  her  urn, 

Her  choicest  dews  might  fling. 
And  drop  her  richest  wave, 
That  thou  didst  dig  thy  grave. 

And  barb,  for  death,  a  sting. 


47 

How  beautiful  is  Night ! 

A  smile  is  on  her  brow ; 
Her  eyes  of  dewy  light 
Look  out,  serenely  bright, 

Upon  ,the  wave  below : 

The  waters,  in  their  flow, 
Just  murmur,  and  the  air 

Hath  scarce  a  breath  to  show 
A  spirit  moving  there : 
The  world  is  purely  fair ; 

The  winds  are  hush'd  and  still; 

The  moonlight  on  the  hill 
Is  sleeping,  and  her  ray 

Along  the  falling  rill, 
In  lightly  dancing  play, 
Soft-winding  steals  away : 

A  cool  and  silent  breath, 
From  water-falls  and  streams, 
Comes  o'er  my  ear,  like  dreams, 

Which,  in  the  pictured  death 
Of  slumber,  on  the  soul 
Delicious  whispers  roll; 

And  lead,  in  mazy  light, 
Before  the  spirit's  eye, 

Sweet  visions  of  delight, 
In  trains  of  beauty,  by. — 
How  fair  and  calm  is  Night ! 

Amid  the  dewy  bow'rs 


48 

She  guides  the  silent  hours, 
With  fairy  steps,  along, 
And  round  the  floating  throng 

A  cloudy  vesture  throws  5 
And  loosely  on  the  air 
She  spreads  their  raven  hair 

To  every  wind  that  blows : 
They  seem  to  hover  by 
Between  me  and  the  sky, 

Each  with  a  golden  zone, 

A  waving  robe  of  snow, 
A  veil,  whose  folds  are  thrown 

In  undulating  flow, 

Like  clouds,  when  breezes  blow ; 
So  to  my  fancy's  view 

The  sylphid  people  play 
Around  the  vaulted  blue, 

And  then  they  melt  away. 
And  leave  the  sky  all  bright. 
With  lamps  of  living  light  5 

And  as  I  fondly  gaze, 
Where  countless  cressets  blaze. 
I  look  to  heav'n  and  say — 

How  beautiful  is  Night ! 


OFTEN,  when  at  night  delaying, 
•Where  the  winding  river  flows, 

On  the  silent  waters  playing 
How  the  star  of  beauty  glows; 


48 

111  the  clear  wave  brightly  sparkling. 

Brightly  as  the  love-lit  eye,, 
Now  again  its  beams  are  darkling. 

As  the  clouds  athwart  it  fly : 
With  a  soft  and  tender  feeling 

Then  I  whisper  out  my  song, 
While  the  mellow  brook  is  stealing 

Silently  the  sand  along. 

There  is  in  that  twinkling  planet 

More  than  all  the  stars  can  boast. 
And  my  fond  eye  loves  to  scan  it, 

Like  a  light-house  on  a  coast, 
Where  the  budding  spring  is  ever 

Pranking  out  her  wooing  bowers, 
And  the  locks  of  beauty  never 

Float  without  a  crown  of  flowers, 
And  her  eye  is  ever  straying 

Round  and  round  with  kindling  beam. 
Like  her  own  bright  planet  playing 

Sweetly  on  the  silent  stream. 

Now  the  star  is  near  the  mountain 

Slowly  setting  in  the  west, 
Shining  on  a  crisping  fountain, 

Or  a  lakelet's  ruffled  breast; 
Now  its  maiden  brightness  mingles 

With  the  mist  that  hovers  there, 
Rising  from  the  woody  dingles, 

Like  a  streaming  tress  of  hair ; 
5 


60 

Now  a  form  is  imaged  round  it, 

'Tis  the  form  that  I  adore, 
Every  charm  of  earth  has  crown'd  it; 

Fairer  beauty  never  wore : 
O !  how  dear  that  tender  feeling, 

When  the  rays  of  beauty  play, 
Where  the  mellow  brook  is  stealing, 

Lighted  by  the  moon,  away. 


WE  met  in  cheerless  hours,  my  dear, 
When  life  had  wan?d  with  me, 

And  all,  that  once  had  charm'd  me  here. 

Was  gone,  but  only  thee,  my  dear, 
Was  gone,  but  only  thee. 

I  lov'd  thee  with  the  glow  of  youth. 

But  with  a  purer  flame ; 
I  vow?d,  before  the  shrine  of  truth, 
To  be,  for  aye,  the  same,  my  dear. 

To  be,  for  aye,  the  same. 

For  youthful  passion  soon  decays, 

It  flashes  and  it  dies ; 
But  my  fond  feeling  shone  with  rays, 
That  kindle  in  the  skies,  my  dear, 

That  kindle  in  the  skies. 

Thou  wert  too  young  to  read  my  heart, 
Or  love  the  spirit's  light ; 


51 

Thou  saidst,  "  Gay  boyhood  can  impart 
A  pleasure  doubly  bright,  my  dear, 
A  pleasure  doubly  bright." 

It  was  the  fondness  of  the  eye, 

That  led  thy  heart  away; 
And  not  the  hues,  that  deeper  lie, 
Than  boyhood  bright  and  gay,  my  dear. 

Than  boyhood  bright  and  gay. 

So  farewell,  love,  for  dear  to  me 
Thy  heart  shall  be  for  ever; 
And  though  I  cannot  live  with  thee, 
O !  I'll  forget  thee  never,  dear, 
O !  I'll  forget  thee  never. 


O !  LOVE  was  made  to  mourn, 

Its  home  is  not  below; 
While  in  this  being's  bourn, 

It  still  must  weep  in  woe. 

Its  home  is  in  the  skies ; 

A  wanderer  with  men, 
It  turns  its  longing  eyes 

To  find  that  home  again. 

But  there  are  forms  so  bright, 
So  fair,  they  seem  its  own ; 

They  glow,  like  stars  at  night, 
When  clouds  away  have  flown. 


52 

And  there  we  fondly  turn, 

And  think,  that  love's  pure  fire 

Will  ever  brightly  burn, 
The  spirit's  vestal  pyre. 

But  O !  how  short  the  lighf, 
How  soon  it  fades  away; 

And  all  our  heart's  delight, 

Enchantments — where  are  they  r 

The  glow,  the  bloom,  are  fled, 

O !  never  to  return ; 
And  hope  to  heav'n  has  sped, 

For  love  was  made  to  mourn, 


SONG, 

O !  PURE  is  the  wind, 

As  it  blows  o'er  the  mountain. 
And  clear  is  the  wave, 

As  it  flows  from  the  fountain; 
And  sweet  are  the  flowers 

In  the  green  meadow  blooming: 
And  gay  are  the  bowers, 

When  the  soft  air  perfuming^ 
O!  go, dearest, go 

To  the  heath,  and  the  mountain. 
Where  the  blue  violets  blow 

On  the  brink  of  the  fountain  j. 


53 

Where  nothing,  but  death, 
Our  affection  can  sever; 

And  till  life's  latest  breath 
Love  shall  bind  us  for  ever. 

O !  bright  is  the  morn, 

When  it  breaks  on  the  valley ; 
And  shrill  is  the  horn, 

When  the  wild  huntsmen  sally  5 
And  clear  shines  the  dew, 

As  the  hounds  hurry  o'er  it  j 
And  light  blows  the  wind, 

As  the  sail  flies  before  it. 
O !  go,  dearest,  go,  &c. 

O !  soft  is  the  mist, 

When  it  curls  round  the  island ; 
And  dark  is  the  cloud, 

As  it  hangs  on  the  highland ; 
And  sweet  chimes  the  rill, 

O'er  the  white  pebble  flowing; 
And  quick  glides  the  boat 

O'er  the  smooth  water  rowing. 
O !  go,  dearest,  go,  &c. 

O!  fleet  is  the  deer 

Through  the  blue  heather  springing; 
And  loud  is  the  shout 

Through  the  wild  valley  ringing; 
5* 


54 

And  soft  is  the  flute 

O'er  the  lake  faintly  sighing, 
When  the  wide  air  is  mute, 

And  the  night-  wind  is  dying. 
O  !  go,  dearest,  go,  &c. 

O  !  go,  dearest,  go 

To  the  heath  and  the  mountain  ; 
Where  the  heart  shall  be  pure, 

As  the  clear-flowing  fountain  ; 
Where  the  soul  shall  be  free, 

As  the  winds,  that  blow  o'er  us; 
And  the  sunset  of  life 

Smile  ifci  beauty  before  us. 

O  !  go,  dearest,  go 
To  the  heath,  and  the  mountain, 

Where  the  blue  violets  blow 
On  the  brink  of  the  fountain  ; 
Where  nothing,  but  death, 
Our  affection  can  sever  ; 

And  till  life's  latest  breath 
Love  shall  bind  us  for  ever. 


Translation  of  the  Latin  Ode  in  the  Boston  Prize  Book,  No,  2 
«  VER,"  by  E.  J.  Loring. 

WINTER  now  has  flown  away, 
And  the  snow  has  left  the  hills  j 


55 

Spring,  with  cheek  all  flushed  and  gay. 
Now  her  urn  with  fragrance  fills. 

Now  the  ploughman's  heart  is  high, 
As  he  drives  his  team  along, 

Turning  every  furrow  by 
To  the  melody  of  song. 

Now  the  meadow  laughs  with  flow'rs, 
And  the  woods  a  balsam  pour ; 

Zephyrs  breathe  through  rosy  bow'rs, 
Where  they  nod  along  the  shore. 

Now  the  brook,  that  lately  stole 

Murmuring  in  an  icy  chain, 
Freshens,  as  its  waters  roll, 

With  sweet  waves,  the  grassy  plain. 

Now  the  pastur'd  bullocks  drink, 
Where  full  rivers  kiss  their  brim ; 

And  where  poplars  crown  the  brink. 
Rustic  flutes  and  voices  hymn. 

Now  the  girls,  in  festal  glee, 

Garlanded  with  roses,  play; 
Gathering  blossoms,  like  the  bee, 

Light  they  sport  the  summer  day. 

When  she  thus,  on  Enna's  plain, 

Crown'd  with  myrtle,  chanc'd  to  rove, 


56 

Pluto,  from  her  frighted  train. 
Stole  the  idol  of  his  love. 

Fairest  Spring !  at  thy  return, 

Meadows  breathe  the  balm  of  flow'rs, 
And  the  wheels  of  day's  god  burn 

Brightest  in  the  train  of  hours. 


THE  SABBATH.    A  SAPPHIC. 

SWEET  is  the  morning,  when  the  Sabbath-day  dawns. 
And  earth  and  sky  spread  lovelier  before  me; 
When  not  a  breath  stirs,  in  its  whispering  motion, 

Garden  or  forest, 

Which  does  not  seem  to  partake  in  the  holy 
Peace  of  the  pure  hearts,  where  passion  slumbers, 
Care  is  compos'd,  and  the  thoughts  all  awaken 

Bright  with  devotion. 

Sweeter  the  lark  sings  on  that  sunny  morning, 
Livelier  the  wren  chirps  round  the  shingled  cottage, 
Deeper  the  robin  swells  his  throat,  and  pours  forth 

Hymns  to  his  Maker. 
Sweetly  the  bell  sounds  far  in  the  distance, 
Rising  and  falling  with  the  winds,  and  rolling 
Over  hill  and  mountain,  like  the  tones,  that  summon 

Pure  souls  to  heav'n. 


57 

'"v 

Sweet  comes  the  music  of  the  rustic  voices, 
When  in  the  oak  grove,  or  the  low-brow'd  temple, 
Hymning  and  praising  HIM,  whose  name  is  HOLY, 

Hearts  glow  with  rapture- 

Sweet  is  the  clear  tone,  where  the  breath  of  incense, 
Longings  of  clean  hearts,  pray'rs  by  pure  lips  spoken, 
Swell  on  the  light  winds,  through  the  arching  branches  5 

Sweet  as  when  organs, 

In  the  dark  choir  of  the  lofty  vaulted  minster, 
Pour  forth  the  deep  stream  of  harmony,  and  roll  round 
Pillar  and  altar,  fretted  roof  and  tall  arch, 

Sounds,  like  the  echoes, 

Which,  in  the  still  night,  after  storms  have  beaten 
Wild  on  the  roof-tree,  round  the  distant  mountains, 
Mellow  but  majestic,  send  on  the  sooth'd  ear 

Calmness  and  slumber. 

Sweet  is  the  Sabbath  to  the  heart,  who  loves  it, 
As  the  day,  when  heaven's  gates  open'd  on  this  dark 

world, 
When  the  KING  OF  GLORY,  mounted  on  a  bright  cloud, 

Conquering  ascended. 


O !  HAD  I  the  wings  of  a  swallow,  I'd  fly 

Where  the  roses  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long. 

Where  the  landscape  is  always  a  feast  to  the  eye, 
And  the  bills  of  the  warblers  are  ever  in  song; 

O !  then  I  would  fly  from  the  cold  and  the  snow. 
And  hie  to  the  land  of  the  orange  and  vine. 


58 

And  carol  the  winter  away  in  the  glow, 

That  rolls  o'er  the  ever  green  bow'rs  of  the  line. 

Indeed,  I  should  gloomily  steal  o'er  the  deep, 

Like  the  storm-loving  petrel,  that  skims  there,  alone; 
I  would  take  me  a  dear  little  martin  to  keep 

A  sociable  flight  to  the  tropical  zone : 
How  cheerily,  wing  by  wing,  over  the  sea 

We  would  fly  from  the  dark  clouds  of  winter  away5 
Aad  for  ever  our  song  and  our  twitter  should  be, 

"  To  the  land  where  the  year  is  eternally  gay." 

We  would  nestle  awhile  in  the  jessamine  bow'rs, 

And  take  up  our  lodge  in  the  crown  of  the  palm. 
And  live,  like  the  bee,  on  its  fruits  and  its  flow'rs, 

That  always  are  flowing  with  honey  and  balm; 
And  there  we  would  stay,  till  the  winter  is  o'er, 

And  April  is  chequer'd  with  sunshine  and  rain— 
O !  then  we  would  flit  from  that  far-distant  shore 

Over  island  and  wave  to  our  country  again. 

How  light  we  would  skim,  where  the  billows  are  roll'd 

Through  clusters  that  bend  with  the  cane  and  the  lime, 
And  break  on  the  beaches  in  surges  of  gold, 

When  morning  comes  forth  in  her  loveliest  prime : 
We  would  touch  for  a  while,  as  we  travers'd  the  ocean. 

At  the  islands  that  echo'd  to  Waller  and  Moore, 
And  winnow  our  wings  with  an  easier  motion 

Through  the  breath  of  the  eedar  that  blows  from  th£ 
shore. 


59 

And  when  we  had  rested  our  wings,  and  had  fed 

On  the  sweetness  that  comes  from  the  juniper 

groves, 
By  the  spirit  of  home  and  of  infancy  led, 

We  would  hurry  again  to  the  land  of  our  loves ; 
And  when  from  the  breast  of  the  ocean  would  spring. 

Far  off  in  the  distance,  that  dear  native  shore, 
In  the  joy  of  our  hearts  we  would  cheerily  sing, 

"  No  land  is  so  lovely,  when  whiter  is  o'er." 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BLEST. 

x 
THE  sunset  is  calm  on  the  face  of  the  deep, 

And  bright  is  the  last  look  of  day  in  the  west, 
And  broadly  the  beams  of  its  parting  glance  sweep, 

Like  the  path  that  conducts  to  the  land  of  the  blest  :• 
All  golden  and  green  is  the  sea,  as  it  flows 

In  billows  just  heaving  its  tide  to  the  shore; 
And  crimson  and  blue  is  the  sky,  as  it  glows 

With  the  colours,  which  tell  us  that  daylight  is  o'er. 

I  sit  on  a  rock,  that  hangs  over  the  wave, 

And  the  foam  heaves  and  tosses  its  snow-wreaths 

below, 
And  the  flakes,  gilt  with  sun-beams,  the  flowing  tide 

pave, 

Like  the  gems  that  in  gardens  of  sorcery  grow : 
I  sit  on  the  rock,  and  I  watch  the  light  fade 
Still  fainter  and  fainter  away  in  the  west, 


60 

And  I  dream,  I  can  catch,  through  the  mantle  of  shade; 
A  glimpse  of  the  dim,  distant  land  of  the  blest. 

And  I  long  for  a  home  in  that  land  of  the  soul, 

Where  hearts  always  warm  glow  with  friendship  and 

love, 
And  days  ever  cloudless  still  cheerily  roll, 

Like  the  age  of  eternity  blazing  above: 
There,  with  friendships  unbroken,  and  loves  ever  true. 

Life  flows  on,  one  gay  dream  of  pleasure  and  rest  5 
And  green  is  the  fresh  turf,  the  sky  purely  blue, 

That  mantle  and  arch  o'er  the  land  of  the  blest. 

The  last  line  of  light  is  now  crossing  the  sea, 

And  the  first  star  is  lighting  its  lamp  in  the  sky; 
It  seems  that  a  sweet  voice  is  calling  to  me, 

Like  a  bird  on  that  pathway  of  brightness  to  fly : 
"  Far  over  the  wave  is  a  green  sunny  isle, 

Where  the  last  cloud  of  evening  now  shines  in  the  west 
?Tis  the  island  that  spring  ever  woos  with  her  smile  j 

O !  seek  it — the  bright  happy  land  of  the  blest." 


RETROSPECTION. 

THERE  are  moments  in  life,  which  are  never  forgot, 
Which  brighten,  and  brighten,  as  time  steals  awayj 

They  give  a  new  charm  to  the  happiest  lot, 

And  they  shine  on  the  gloom  of  the  loneliest  day: 


61 

These  moments  are  hallow'd  by  smiles  and  by  tears, 
The  first  look  of  love,  and  the  last  parting  given; 

As  the  sun,  in  the  dawn  of  his  glory,  appears, 

And  the  cloud  weeps  and  glows  with  the  rainbow  in 
heav'n. 

There  are  hours — there  are  minutes,  which  memory 
brings, 

Like  blossoms  of  Eden,  to  twine  round  the  heart; 
And  as  time  rushes  by  on  the  might  of  his  wings, 

They  may  darken  awhile,  but  they  never  depart : 
O !  these  hallowed  remembrances  cannot  decay, 

But  they  come  on  the  soul  with  a  magical  thrill ; 
And  in  days  that  are  darkest,  they  kindly  will  stay, 

And  the  heart,  in  its  last  throb,  will  beat  with  them  still. 

They  come,  like  the  dawn  in  its  loveliness,  now, 

The  same  look  of  beauty,  that  shot  to  my  soul ; 
The  snows  of  the  mountain  are  bleach'd  on  her  brow, 

And  her  eyes,  in  the  blue  of  the  firmament,  roll : 
The  roses  are  dim  by  her  cheek's  living  bloom, 

And  her  coral  lips  part,  like  the  opening  of  flowers; 
She  moves  through  the  air  in  a  cloud  of  perfume, 

Like  the  wind  from  the  blossoms  of  jessamine  bowers. 

From  her  eye's  melting  azure  there  sparkles  'a  flame, 
That  kindled  my  young  blood  to  extacy's  glow; 

She  speaks — and  the  tones  of  her  voice  are  the  same, 
As  would  once,  like  the  wind-harp,  in  melody  flow  : 
6 


62 

That  touch,  as  her  hand  meets  and  mingles  with  mine, 
Shoots  along  to  my  heart,  with  electrical  thrill ; 

'Twas  a  moment,  for  earth  too  supremely  divine, 

And  while  life  lasts,  its  sweetness  shall  cling  to  me  stilL 

We  met — and  we  drank  from  the  crystalline  well, 

That  flows  from  the  fountain  of  science  above ; 
On  the  beauties  of  thought  we  would  silently  dwell, 

Till  we  look'd — though  we  never  were  talking  of  love: 
We  parted — the  tear  glisten 'd  bright  in  her  eye, 

And  her  melting  hand  shook,  as  I  dropp?d  it — -for  ever; 
O !  that  moment  will  always  be  hovering  by, 

Life  may  frown — but  its  light  shall  abandon  me — 
never. 


SILENT  she  stood  before  me,  in  the  light 
And  majesty  of  beauty;  and  her  eye 
Was  teeming  with  the  visions  of  her  soul- 
She  stood  before  me  in  a  veil  of  white, 

The  image  of  her  bosom's  purity, 
And  loveliness  envelop'd  her,  as  bright, 

As  when,  at  set  of  sun^the  clouds  unroll. 
Pavilioning  the  dusky  throne  of  night. 

There  is  a  spirit  in  the  kindling  glance 
Of  pure  and  lofty  beauty,  which  doth  quell 
Each  darker  passion ;  and,  as  heroes  fell 

Before  the  terror  of  Minerva's  lance, 


63 

So  beauty,  arm'd  with  virtue,  bows  the  soul 
With  a  commanding,  but  a  sweet  control, 
Making  the  heart  all  holiness  and  love ; 
And  lifting  it  to  worlds  that  shine  above, 
Until,  subdued,  we  humbly  bend  before 
The  idol  of  our  worship,  to  adore. 


IT  was  the  hour  of  moonlight — and  the  bells 

Had  rung  their  curfew  tones,  and  they  were  still ; 
The  echo  died  around  the  distant  hill, 

Sinking  in  faint  and  fainter  falls  and  swells, 
Accordant  with  the  fitful  wind,  that  blew  ' 
Over  the  new-mown  meadow,  where  the  dew 

Stood  twinkling  on  the  closely  shaven  stems, 

Glittering  as  'twere  a  carpet  sown  with  gems  ; 

And  from  the  winding  river  there  arose 

A  mist,  that  curPd  in  volum'cl  folds,  and  gave 
A  snowy  mantle  to  the  stealing  wave, 

Like  that  which  fancy,  love-enchanted,  throws 

Over  the  form,  it  doats  on  with  a  feeling 
Of  most  endeared  fondness,  blind  tc  all, 

That  is  not  light  and  loveliness,  concealing 
The  tints  of  weakness  with  a  darkest  rjall : 

And  as  the  moon,  descending  on  the  cloud, 
Gives  it  a  rainbow  livery,  and  hues 
All  softness  and  all  beauty,  so  imbues 
The  fond  eye  of  affection  with  all  charms 

The  image  of  its  awe :  and  he  is  proud, 
Aye,  prouder  than  the  proudest,  when  his  arms 


64 

Around  that  form  of  loveliness  are  flung, 
And  when  those  melting  eyes  are  on  him  hung, 
And  when  those  lips  are  moving  in  sweet  tones, 
That  tell,  whatever  the  words  be,  that  she  owns 
No  other  for  her  love — and  then  the  sigh 
Struggles  within  her  bosom,  and  her  eye 
Is  wet  with  rising  tears,  and  then  the  smile 
Plays  sweetly  on  her  parting  lips  awhile, 
And  then  she  hangs  upon  his  arm,  and  tells, 
Her  heart  how  happy — and  that  fond  heart  swells 
To  give  its  feelings  utterance,  and  she  sings 
Sweetly,  as  when  the  lark  at  morning  springs 
From  out  a  dewy  thicket,  and  away 
Winnows  his  easy  flight  to  meet  the  day ; 

And  thus  their  eyes  are  blended,  and  they  gaze 
A  moment  on  each  other,  and  then  turn 
To  where  the  countless  fires  of  ether  burn, 

And  look  from  heav'n  with  soft  and  soothing  rays : 
A  moment  with  uplifted  brow  they  pour 
The  swelling  current  of  devotion  o'er, 
And  then  descending  from  that  upward  flight, 
Again  their  eyes  in  tender  looks  unite, 
Again  they  speak  in  under  tones,  as  still 
As  are  the  winds  that  rustle  on  the  hill, 
Then  side  by  side  in  links  of  fondness  presC 
Steal  silently  unto  their  hallow'd  rest. 


65 


HE  comes  not — I  have  watch'd  the  moon  go  down- 
But  yet  he  comes  not — Once  it  was  not  so. 
He  thinks  not  how  these  bitter  tears  do  flow. 

The  while  he  holds  his  riot  in  that  town. 

Yet  he  will  come,  and  chide,  and  I  shall  weep ; 

And  he  will  wake  my  infant  from  its  sleep, 
To  blend  its  feeble  wailing  with  my  tears. 

O !  how  I  love  a  mother's  watch  to  keep, 

Over  those  sleeping  eyes,  that  smile,  which  cheers 

My  heart,  though  sunk  in  sorrow,  fix'd  and  deep. 

I  had  a  husband  once,  who  lov'd  me — now 

He  ever  wears  a  frown  upon  his  brow, 

And  feeds  his  passion  on  a  wanton's  lip, 

As  bees,  from  laurel  flowers,  a  poison  sip ; 
But  yet,  I  cannot  hate — O !  there  were  hours, 

When  I  could  hang  for  ever  on  his  eye, 

And  time,  who  stole  with  silent  swiftness  by, 
Strewed,  as  he  hurried  on,  his  path  with  flowers. 

I  lov'd  him  then — he  lov'd  me  too — My  heart 
Still  finds  its  fondness  kindle,  if  he  smile  5 

The  memory  of  our  loves  will  ne'er  depart ; 

And  though  he  often  sting  me  with  a  dart, 
Venom'd  and  barb'd,  and  waste  upon  the  vile 

Caresses,  which  his  babe  and  mine  should  share ; 

Though  he  should  spurn  me,  I  will  calmly  bear 

:His  madness — and  should  sickness  come,  and  lay 
,6  * 


66 

Its  paralyzing  hand  upon  him,  then 
I  would,  with  kindness,  all  my  wrongs  repay, 
Until  the  penitent  should  weep,  and  say, 

How  injured,  and  how  faithful  I  had  been, 


THERE  is  a  spot — a  quiet  spot,  which  blooms 
On  earth's  cold,  heartless  desert — It  hath  power 
To  give  a  sweetness  to  the  darkest  hour, 
As,  in  the  starless  midnight,  from  the  rose, 
Now  dipp'd  in  dew,  a  sweeter  perfume  flows ; 
And  suddenly  the  wanderer's  heart  assumes 
New  courage,  and  he  keeps  his  course  along, 
Cheering  the  darkness  with  a  whisper'd  song: 
At  every  step  a  purer,  fresher  air 
Salutes  him,  and  the  winds  of  morning  bear 
Soft  odours  from  the  violet  beds  and  vines ; 
And  thus  he  wanders,  till  the  dawning  shines 
Above  the  misty  mountains,  and  a  hue 
Of  vermeil  blushes  on  the  cloudless  blue, 
Like  health  disporting  on  the  downy  cheek — 
It  is  time's  fairest  moment — as  a  dove 
Shading  the  earth  with  azure  wings  of  love, 
The  sky  broods  o'er  us,  and  the  cool  winds  speak 
The  peace  of  nature,  and  the  waters  fall, 
From  leap  to  leap,  more  sweetly  musical, 
And,  from  the  cloudy  bosom  of  the  vale, 
Come,  on  the  dripping  pinions  of  the  gale. 


67 

The  simple  melody  of  early  birds 

Wooing  their  mates  to  love,  the  low  of  herds, 

And  the  faint  bleating  of  the  new-born  lambs 

Pursuing,  with  light-bounding  step,  their  dams; 

Again  the  shepherd's  whistle,  and  the  bark, 

That  shrilly  answers  to  his  call ;  and  hark ! 

As  o'er  the  trees  the  golden  rays  appear, 

Bursts  the  last  joyous  song  of  chariticlere, 

Who  moves,  in  stately  pomp,  before  his  train, 

Till,  from  his  emerald  neck,  and  burnish'd  wings. 

The  playful  light  a  dazzling  beauty  flings, 

As  if  the  stars  had  lit  their  fires  again — 

So  sweetly,  to  the  wand'rer  o'er  the  plain, 

The  rose,  the  jessamine,  and  every  flower, 

That  spreads  its  leafets  in  the  dewy  hour, 

And  catches,  in  its  bell,  night's  viewless  rain, 

In  temper'd  balm  their  rich  aroma  shower; 

And  with  this  charm  the  morning,  on  his  eye, 

Looks  from  her  portals  in  the  eastern  sky, 

And  throws  her  blushes  o'er  the  sleeping  earth. 

And  wakes  it  to  a  fresh  and  lovely  birth — 

O !  such  a  charm  adorns  that  fairest  spot, 

Where  noise  and  revelry  disturb  me  not, 

But  all  the  spirits,  that  console  me,  come, 

And  o'er  me  spread  a  peaceful  canopy, 

And  stand  with  messages  of  kindness  by, 

And  one  sweet  dove,  with  eyes  that  look  me  bless'd, 

Sits  brooding  all  my  treasures  in  her  nest 

Without  one  slightest  wish  the  world  to  roam, 

'Or  leave  me,  and  that  quiet  dwelling — home. 


A  PICTURE. 

SCENE — The  Valley  of  the  Catskill  River  north  of  the  Catskill 
Mountains. 

THE  glories  of  a  clouded  moonlit  night — 

An  union  of  wild  mountains,  and  dark  storms 
Gathering  around  their  summits,  or  in  forms 

Majestic,  moving  far  away  in  light, 

Like  pillar'd  snow,  or  spectres  wreath'd  in  flame — 
Meanwhile  around  the  distant  peaks  a  flow 
Of  moonlight  settles,  seeming  from  below, 

Above  the  mountain's  rude  gigantic  frame, 
An  island  of  the  heart,  a  home  of  bright, 
Unsullied  souls,  who,  clad  in  purest  white, 

Their  bosoms  stainless  as  their  mantles,  play 
Around  the  gilded  rocks,  and  snowy  lawns, 
And  azure  groves,  in  choirs  like  bounding  fawns 

Around  the  throne  of  some  imperial  fay — 

Again  the  dark  clouds  brood  below;  their  fold 
A  moment  shrouds  the  mountain  in  dun  shade, 

Like  midnight  blackness  from  a  crater  rolFd, 
And  flashing,  as  the  glimmering  of  a  blade 

Amid  the  wreaths  of  war-smoke,  lightnings  quiver, 

And  crackling  bolts  the  oak's  bent  branches  shiver? 
And  rumbling  echoes  from  the  hollow  glens 
Roar,  like  the  voice  of  lions  in  their  dens 

Awing  the  silent  desert — then  the  cloud, 

Careering  on  the  whirlwind,  lifts  its  shroud 


69 


From  off  yon  soaring  pinnacle,  and  sweet, 

Soft  moonlight  there  is  sleeping,  like  the  ray. 

Whose  flashes  on  a  chequer'd  fountain  play 
Light  as  the  twinkling  glance  of  fairies'  feet, 

Or  brood  in  burnish'd  brightness  on  the  stream, 
Or  kiss  the  tufted  bank  of  dewy  flowers, 

As  if  consoling,  in  his  boyish  dream, 
Her  shepherd  through  her  own  still  magic  hours — 
Such  is  the  brightness  on  those  rocky  towers ; 

And  rising  in  an  arch  of  double  height, 
Soaring  away  beyond  that  cone,  the  sky 

Smiles  to  the  harmonizing  touch  of  light, 
Like  the  blue  iris  of  a  joyous  eye — 

The  moon  is  there  in  glory,  and  the  stars 
Shrink  from  her  fuller  splendour,  and  grow  dim 

Behind  the  veil  of  her  effulgence. — Airs, 
As  if  from  Eden  breathing,  blow;  clouds  swim, 
Foamlike  and  fleecy,  round  the  landscape's  brim ; 
And  heaving  like  a  storm-swoln  billow's  crest, 
Rolls  the  wild  tempest  in  the  darken'd  west, 
Its  flashes  twinkling  through  the  gloom,  its  peals 

Bellowing  amid  the  purple  glens ;  the  rain, 
Scudding  along  the  forest,  bears  the  bow 
Wreath'd  round  the  flying  storm-cloud,  as  it  steals 

Stiller  and  stiller  through  the  night — the  stain 
Of  braided  colours,  in  a  softer  glow, 
Bends  o'er  the  foaming  river  its  tall  arch, 
As  if  the  spirits  of  the  air  might  march 
From  mountain  on  to  mountain,  and  look  down, 
In  triumph,  from  the  pictur'd  circle's  crown, 


70 

On  hamlets  wrapp'd  in  slumber,  meadows  green 

And  gemm'd  with  rain-drops,  woods,  whose  leaves  are 

bow'd 

With  the  dissolving  richness  of  the  cloud, 
And  brown  brooks  flashing  down  the  hills,  and  pouring 

Their  tribute  to  the  master  stream,  which  wheels 
Through  the  rude  valley,  foaming,  tumbling,  roaring, 

And  on  the  lonely  wanderer,  who  steals 
Abroad  in  silence  to  that  echoing  shore, 
And  gazing  on  the  mad  wave,  and  the  sky, 
Which  arches  o'er  the  universe  on  high, 
And  on  the  flying  cohorts  of  the  storm, 
Hiding  their  frowns  behind  a  seraph's  form, 
With  soul  subdued,  and  aw'd,  enchanted  eye, 
f^an  only  bow  before  them  and  adore. 


The  following  effusion  may  serve  to  explain  one  of  the  myste 
ries  of  mythology — the  location  of  heaven  above  us. 

I  HAD  been  sitting  at  a  feast  of  souls,  . 
A  banquet  of  pure  spirits,  where  the  thought 
Spoke  on  the  eloquent  tongue,  and  in  the  eye's 
Gay  sparkle,  and  the  ever-changing  play 
Of  feature,  like  the  twinkling  glance  of  waves 
Beneath  the  summer  noonlight.     I  walk'd  forth; 
It  was  a  night  in  autumn,  and  the  moon 
Was  visible  through  clouds  of  opal,  lac'd 
With  gold  and  carmine — such  a  silent  night 


71 

As  fairies  love  to  dance  and  revel  in? 

When  winds  are  hush'd,  and  leaves  are  still,  and 

waves 

Are  sleeping  on  the  waters,  and  the  hum 
And  stir  of  life  reposing.     There  was  spread 
Before  my  sight  a  smooth  and  glossy  bay, 
Mirror'd  in  silver  brightness,  and  the  chime 
Of  rippling  waters  on  its  pebbles,  broke 
Alone  the  quietude  that  filPd  the  air : 
But  when  the  tremulous  heaving  of  the  deep, 
Far  off,  along  its  sandy  barriers,  rose 
And  faintly  echoed,  as  the  fitful  gust 
Ruffled  the  placid  surface  glassM  belowr; 
Or,  at  the  call  of  night-  birds,  where  they  flew 
And  sported  in  the  sedges,  low  and  sweet, 
Like  swallows  twittering,  or  the  cooing  voice 
Of  ring-doves,  when  they  brood  their  callow  young. 
I  lookM  abroad  on  sea  and  mountain,  wild 
And  cultur'd  field  and  garden,  and  they  lay, 
Amid  the  stillness  of  the  elements, 
Silent,  and  motionless,  and  beautiful, 
For  mist  and  moonlight  soften'd  down  their  forms, 
And  cover'd  them  with  dim  transparency, 
Like  beauty  melting  through  her  Coan  veil  ; 
A  wind  rose  from  the  ocean,  as  it  rolPd 
Blue  in  the  boundless  distance,  and  it  swept 
The  curtainM  clouds  athwart  the  moon,  and  gave 
The  undimm'd  azure  of  the  sky  to  light 
And  full  expansion.     There  my  eyes  were  turnM. 
And  there  they  found  the  magic  influence, 


72    _ 

Which  bound  them,  like  enchantment,  in  a  trance 

Of  most  exalted  feeling,  and  the  soul 

Was  lifted  from  the  body,  and  became 

A  portion  of  the  purity  and  light 

And  loveliness  of  that  cerulean  dome : 

And  it  imagin'd  on  the  mountain  top, 

Now  silvered  with  the  milder  beam  of  night. 

On  the  blue  arch,  and  on  the  rolling  moon, 

Careering  through  the  host  of  stars,  who  seemM 

To  worship  at  her  coming,  and  put  out 

The  brightness  of  their  twinkling,  when  she  movM 

Serenely  and  majestically  by — 

On  these,  and  on  the  snowy  clouds,  that  hung 

Their  curtains  round  the  border  of  the  sky. 

Like  folds  of  silken  tapestry,  it  laid 

A  world  of  tenderness  and  purity, 

The  quiet  habitation  of  the  heart, 

The  resting-place  of  those  impassioned  souls. 

Who  draw  their  inspiration  at  the  founts 

Of  nature,  flowing  from  that  theatre, 

Whose  scene  is  ever  shifting  with  the  play 

Of  seasons,  as  the  year  steals  swiftly  on, 

And  bears  us,  with  its  silent  foot,  away 

To  dissolution ;  ardent  souls,  who  love 

The  rude  rock  and  the  frowning  precipice, 

The  winding  valley,  where  it  lies  in  green 

Along  the  bubbling  riv'let,  and  the  plain, 

Parted  in  field  and  meadow,  redolent 

Of  roses  in  the^flow'ry  days  of  spring; 

And  in  the  nights  of  autumn,  of  the  breath 


73 

Of  frosted  clusters,  hung  along  the  vines 
In  blue  and  gushing  festoons,  in  whose  rind 
The  drink  of  souls,  the  nectar  of  the  gods, 
Ripens  beneath  the  warm  unclouded  sky. 

I  look'd  upon  this  loveliness,  until 
A  dream  came  o'er  me,  and  the  firmament 
Was  animate,  and  spirits  filFd  the  air, 
Floating  on  snowy  wings,  and  rustled  by, 
Fanning  the  wind  to  coolness ;  and  they  came 
On  messages  of  kindness,  and  they  sought 
The  pillow  of  o'er-wearied  toil,  and  shook 
The  dews  of  Lethe  from  their  dripping  plumes 
Around  his  temples,  till  his  mind  forgot 
Its  sad  realities,  and  happy  dreams 
Rose  fair  and  sweet  around  him,  and  restored 
Awhile  the  spotless  hours  of  infancy, 
When  life  is  one  enchantment !     Then  I  seemM 
Rapt  in  a  trance  of  ecstasy,  and  forms 
Stood  thronging  round  supremely  beautiful, 
Whose  looks  were  full  of  tenderness,  whose  words 
Were  glances,  and  whose  melodies  were  smiles ; 
Who  utter'd  forth  the  feelings  of  the  soul 
In  that  expressive  dialect,  whose  tones 
No  tongue  can  syllable,  the  unseen  chain, 
Which  links  those  hearts  that  beat  in  unison. 
It  was  that  perfect  meeting,  whither  tend 
Our  spirits  in  their  better  hours,  and  find 
The  balm  of  wounded  bosoms,  where  they  dream 
7 


74 

The  eye  of  mercy  ever  smiles,  and  peace 
For  ever  broods — They  call  the  vision  heav'n. 

And  thus  hath  man  imagined  he  can  find 
The  region  of  his  angels,  and  his  gods, 
And  blessed  spirits,  somewhere  in  the  sky; 
Or  in  the  moon,  to  which  the  Indian  turns, 
And  dreams  it  is  a  cool  and  quiet  land, 
Where  insect  cannot  sting,  nor  tiger  prowl ; 
Or  on  the  cone  of  mountains,  where  the  snow. 
Purest  of  all  material  things,  is  laid 
Upon  a  cloudy  pillow,  wreath'd  around 
The  midway  height,  and  parting  from  this  world 
Olympus  and  the  Swerga's  holy  bowers. 


There  are  many  youths,  and  some  men,  who  most  earnestly 
devote  themselves  to  solitary  studies,  from  the  mere  love 
of  the  pursuit.  I  have  here  attempted  to  give  some  of  the 
causes  of  a  devotion,  which  appears  so  unaccountable  to  the 
stirring  world.* 

AND  wherefore  does  the  student  trim  his  lamp, 

And  watch  his  lonely  taper,  when  the  stars 

Are  holding  their  high  festival  in  heav'n, 

And  worshipping  around  the  midnight  throne  ? 

And  wherefore  does  he  spend  so  patiently, 

In  deep  and  voiceless  thought,  the  blooming  hours 

*  Written  for  an  album. 


75 

Of  youth  and  joyaunce,  when  the  blood  is  warm, 
And  the  heart  full  of  buoyancy  and  fire  ? 

The  sun  is  on  the  waters,  and  the  air 

Breathes  with  a  stirring  energy ;  the  plants 

Expand  their  leaves,  and  swell  their  buds,  and  blow, 

Wooing  the  eye,  and  stealing  on  the  soul 

With  perfume  and  with  beauty — Life  awakes; 

Its  wings  are  waving,  and  its  fins  at  play 

Glancing  from  out  the  streamlets,  and  the  voice 

Of  love  and  joy  is  warbled  in  the  grove; 

And  children  sport  upon  the  springing  turf, 

With  shouts  of  innocent  glee,  and  youth  is  fir'd 

With  a  diviner  passion,  and  the  eye 

Speaks  deeper  meaning,  and  the  cheek  is  filPd, 

At  every  tender  motion  of  the  heart, 

With  purer  flushings ;  for  the  boundless  power. 

That  rules  all  living  creatures,  now  has  sway ; 

Jn  man  refin'd  to  holiness,  a  flame, 

That  purifies  the  heart  it  feeds  upon : 

And  yet  the  searching  spirit  will  not  blend 

With  this  rejoicing,  these  attractive  charms 

Of  the  glad  season;  but,  at  wisdom's  shrine, 

Will  draw  pure  draughts  from  her  unfathom'd  well, 

And  nurse  the  never-dying  lamp,  that  burns 

Brighter  and  brighter  on,  as  ages  roll. 

He  has  his  pleasures — he  has  his  reward : 
For  there  is  in  the  company  of  books, 
The  living  souls  of  the  departed  sage, 


76 

And  bard,  and  hero;  there  is  in  the  roli 

Of  eloquence  and  history,  which  speak 

The  deeds  of  early  and  of  better  days ; 

In  these,  and  in  the  visions,  that  arise 

Sublime  in  midnight  musings,  and  array 

Conceptions  of  the  mighty  and  the  good, 

There  is  an  elevating  influence, 

That  snatches  us  awhile  from  earth,  and  lifts 

The  spirit  in^.ts  strong  aspirings,  where 

Superior  beings  fill  the  court  of  heaven. 

And  thus  his  fancy  wanders,  and  has  talk 

With  high  imaginings,  and  pictures  out 

Communion  with  the  worthies  of  old  time : 

And  then  he  listens  in  his  passionate  dreams, 

To  voices  in  the  silent  gloom  of  night, 

As  of  the  blind  Meonian,  when  he  struck 

Wonder  from  out  his  harp-strings,  and  roll'd  on? 

From  rhapsody  to  rhapsody,  deep  sounds, 

That  imitate  the  ocean's  boundless  roar; 

Or  tones  of  horror,  which  the  drama  spake. 

Reverberated  through  the  hollow  mask, 

Like  sounds,  which  rend  the  sepulchres  of  kings. 

And  tell  of  deeds  of  darkness,  which  the  grave 

Would  burst  its  marble  portals  to  reveal ; 

Or  his,  who  latest  in  the  holy  cause 

Of  freedom,  lifted  to  the  heavens  his  voice. 

Commanding,  and  beseeching,  and  with  all 

The  fervour  of  his  spirit  pour'd  abroad, 

Urging  the  sluggish  souls  of  self-made  slaves 

To  emulate  their  fathers,  and  be  free ; 


77 

Or  those,  which  in  the  still  and  solemn  shades 
Of  Academus,  from  the  wooing  tongue 
Of  Plato,  charm'd  the  youth,  the  man,  the  sage. 
Discoursing  of  the  perfect  and  the  pure, 
The  beautiful  and  holy,  till  the  sound, 
That  play'd  around  his  eloquent  lips,  became 
The  honey  of  persuasion,  and  was  heard, 
As  oracles  amid  Dodona's  groves. 
With  eye  upturned  watching  the  many  stars, 
And  ear  in  deep  attention  fix'd,  he  sits, 
Communing  with  himself,  and  with  the  world, 
The  universe  around  him,  and  with  all 
The  beings  of  his  memory,  and  his  hopes ; 
Till  past  becomes  reality,  and  joys, 
That  beckon  in  the  future,  nearer  draw, 
And  ask  fruition — O !  there  is  a  pure, 
A  hallowM  feeling  in  these  midnight  dreams  ; 
They  have  the  light  of  heaven  around  them,  breathe 
The  odour  of  its  sanctity,  and  are 
Those  moments  taken  from  the  sands  of  life, 
Where  guilt  makes  no  intrusion,  but  they  bloom, 
Like  islands  flow'ring  on  Arabia's  wild. 
And  there  is  pleasure  in  the  utterance 
Of  pleasant  images  in  pleasant  words, 
Melting  like  melody  into  the  ear, 
And  stealing  on  in  one  continual  flow, 
Unruffled  and  unbroken — It  is  joy 
Ineffable,  to  dwell  upon  the  lines, 
That  register  our  feelings,  and  portray, 
In  colours  always  fresh  and  ever  new, 
7* 


78 

Emotions,  that  were  sanctified,  and  lov'd, 
As  something  far  too  tender,  and  too  pure, 
For  forms  so  frail  and  fading — I  have  sat, 
In  days,  when  sensibility  was  young, 
And  the  heart  beat  responsive  to  the  sight, 
The  touch,  and  music  of  the  lovely  one; 
Yes,  I  have  sat  entranced,  enraptur  d,  till 
The  spirit  would  have  utterance,  and  words 
Flow'd  full  of  hope,  and  love,  and  melody, 
The  gushings  of  an  overburdened  heart 
Drunk  with  enchantment,  bursting  freely  forth, 
Like  fountains  in  the  early  days  of  spring. 


I  consider  Poetry  in  a  twofold  view,  as  a  spirit  and  a  manifes 
tation.  Perhaps  the  poetic  spirit  has  never  been  more  justly 
defined,  than  by  Byron  in  his  Prophecy  of  Dante,  a  creation 

"  From  overfeeling  good  or  ill,  an  aim 
At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate." 

This  spirit  may  be  manifested  by  language,  metrical  or 
prose,  by  declamation,  by  musical  sounds,  by  expression, 
by  gesture,  by  motion,  and  by  imitating  forms,  colours,  and 
shades;  so  that  literature,  oratory,  music,  physiognomy, 
acting,  and  the  aits  of  painting  and  sculpture,  may  all  have 
their  poetry ;  but  that  peculiar  spirit,  which  alone  gives  the 
great  life  and  charm  to  all  the  efforts  of  genius,  is  as  distinct 
from  the  measure  and  rhyme  of  poetical  composition,  as 
from  the  scientific  principles  of  drawing  and  perspective 

THE  world  is  full  of  Poetry — the  air 
Is  living  with  its  spirit ;  and  the  waves 


79 

Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies, 

And  sparkle  in  its  brightness — Earth  is  veilM, 

And  mantled  with  its  beauty ;  and  the  walls, 

That  close  the  universe,  with  crystal,  in, 

Are  eloquent  with  voices,  that  proclaim 

The  unseen  glories  of  immensity, 

In  harmonies,  too  perfect,  and  too  high 

For  aught,  but  beings  of  celestial  mould, 

And  speak  to  man,  in  one  eternal  hymn, 

Unfading  beauty,  and  unyielding  power. 

The  year  leads  round  the  seasons,  in  a  choir 
For  ever  charming,  and  for  ever  new, 
Blending  the  grand,  the  beautiful,  the  gay, 
The  mournful,  and  the  tender,  in  one  strain, 
Which  steals  into  the  heart,  like  sounds,  that  rise 
Far  off,  in  moonlight  evenings,  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  ocean  resting  after  storms ; 
Or  tones,  that  wind  around  the  vaulted  roof, 
And  pointed  arches,  and  retiring  aisles 
Of  some  old,  lonely  minster,  where  the  hand, 
Skilful,  and  mov'd  with  passionate  love  of  art, 
Plays  o'er  the  higher  keys,  and  bears  aloft 
The  peal  of  bursting  thunder,  and  then  calls, 
By  mellow  touches,  from  the  softer  tubes, 
Voices  of  melting  tenderness,  that  blend 
With  pure  and  gentle  musings,  till  the  soul, 
Commingling  with  the  melody,  is  borne, 
Rapt,  and  dissolv'd  in  ecstasy,  to  heaven. 


80 

>Tis  not  the  chime  and  flow  of  words,  that  move 

In  measur'd  file,  and  metrical  array; 

'Tis  not  the  union  of  returning  sounds, 

Nor  all  the  pleasing  artifice  of  rhyme, 

And  quantity,  and  accent,  that  can  give 

This  all-pervading  spirit  to  the  ear, 

Or  blend  it  with  the  movings  of  the  soul. 

?Tis  a  mysterious  feeling,  which  combines 

Man  with  the  world  around  him,  in  a  chain 

Woven  of  flowers,  and  dipped  in  sweetness,  till 

He  taste  the  high  communion  of  his  thoughts, 

With  all  existences,  in  earth  and  heaven, 

That  meet  him  in  the  charm  of  grace  and  power. 

'Tis  not  the  noisy  babbler,  who  displays, 

In  studied  phrase,  and  ornate  epithet, 

And  rounded  period,  poor  and  vapid  thoughts, 

Which  peep  from  out  the  cumbrous  ornaments, 

That  overload  their  littleness. — Its  words 

Are  few,  but  deep  and  solemn ;  and  they  break 

Fresh  from  the  fount  of  feeling,  and  are  full 

Of  all  that  passion,  which,  on  Carmel,  fir'd 

The  holy  prophet,  when  his  lips  were  coals, 

His  language  wing'd  with  terror,  as  when  bolts 

Leap  from  the  brooding  tempest,  arm?d  with  wrath, 

Commission'd  to  affright  us,  and  destroy. 

Passion,  when  deep,  is  still — the  glaring  eye. 
That  reads  its  enemy  with  glance  of  fire, 
The  lip,  that  curls  and  writhes  in  bitterness, 
The  brow  contracted,  till  its  wrinkles  hide 


81 

The  keen,  fix'd  orbs,  that  burn  and  flash  below, 

The  hand  firm-clench'd  and  quivering,  and  the  foot 

Planted  in  attitude  to  spring,  and  dart 

Its  vengeance,  are  the  language,  it  employs. 

So  the  poetic  feeling  needs  no  words 

To  give  it  utterance ;  but  it  swells,  and  glows, 

And  revels  in  the  ecstasies  of  soul, 

And  sits  at  banquet  with  celestial  forms, 

The  beings  of  its  own  creation,  fair, 

And  lovely,  as  e'er  haunted  wood  and  wave, 

When  earth  was  peopled,  in  its  solitudes, 

With  nymph  and  naiad — mighty,  as  the  gods, 

Whose  palace  was  Olympus,  and  the  clouds, 

That  hung,  in  gold  and  flame,  around  its  brow; 

Who  bore,  upon  their  features,  all  that  grand, 

And  awful  dignity  of  front,  which  bows 

The  eye  that  gazes  on  the  marble  Jove, 

Who  hurls,  in  wrath,  his  thunder,  and  the  god, 

The  image  of  a  beauty,  so  divine, 

So  masculine,  so  artless,  that  we  seem 

To  share  in  his  intensity  of  joy, 

When,  sure  as  fate,  the  bounding  arrow  sped, 

And  darted  to  the  scaly  monster's  heart. 

This  spirit  is  the  breath' of  nature,  blown 
Over  the  sleeping  forms  of  clay,  who  else 
Doze  on  through  life  in  blank  stupidity, 
Till  by  its  blast,  as  by  a  touch  of  fire, 
They  rouse  to  lofty  purpose,  and  send  out, 
In  deeds  of  energy,  the  rage  within. 


82 

Its  seat  is  deeper  in  the  savage  breast, 
Than  in  the  man  of  cities;  in  the  child, 
Than  in  maturer  bosoms.     Art  may  prune 
Its  rank  and  wild  luxuriance,  and  may  train 
Its  strong  out-breakings,  and  its  vehement  gusts 
To  soft  refinement,  and  amenity; 
But  all  its  energy  has  vanished,  all 
Its  madd'ning,  and  commanding  spirit  gone, 
And  all  its  tender  touches,  and  its  tones 
Of  soul-dissolving  pathos,  lost  and  hid 
Among  the  measured  notes,  that  move  as  dead 
And  heartless,  as  the  puppets  in  a  show. 

Well  I  remember,  in  my  boyish  days, 

How  deep  the  feeling,  when  my  eye  look'd  forth 

On  nature,  in  her  loveliness,  and  storms. 

How  my  heart  gladden'd,  as  the  light  of  spring 

Came  from  the  sun  with  zephyrs,  and  with  showers, 

Waking  the  earth  to  beauty,  and  the  woods 

To  music,  and  the  atmosphere  to  blow, 

Sweetly  and  calmly,  with  its  breath  of  balm. 

O !  how  I  gaz'd  upon  the  dazzling  blue 

Of  summer's  heaven  of  glory,  and  the  waves, 

That  roll'd,  in  bending  gold,  o'er  hill  and  plain ; 

And  on  the  tempest,  when  it  issued  forth, 

In  folds  of  blackness,  from  the  northern  sky, 

And  stood  above  the  mountains,  silent,  dark, 

Frowning  and  terrible ;  then  sent  abroad 

The  lightning,  as  its  herald,  and  the  peal, 

That  roll'd,  in  deep,  deep  volleys,  round  the  hills, 


83 

The  warning  of  its  coming,  and  the  sound, 
That  usher'd  in  its  elemental  war. 
And,  O !  I  stood,  in  breathless  longing  fix'd, 
Trembling,  and  yet  not  fearful,  as  the  clouds 
Heav'd  their  dark  billows  on  the  roaring  winds, 
That  sent,  from  mountain  top,  and  bending  wood, 
A  long  hoarse  murmur,  like  the  rush  of  waves, 
That  burst,  in  foam  and  fury,  on  the  shore. 

Nor  less  the  swelling  of  my  heart,  when  high 

Rose  the  blue  arch  of  autumn,  cloudless,  pure, 

As  nature,  at  her  dawning,  when  she  sprang 

Fresh  from  the  hand,  that  wrought  her ;  where  the  eye 

Caught  not  a  speck  upon  the  soft  serene, 

To  stain  its  deep  cerulean,  but  the  cloud, 

That  floated,  like  a  lonely  spirit,  there, 

White,  as  the  snow  of  Zemla,  or  the  foam, 

That  on  the  mid-sea  tosses,  cinctur'd  round, 

In  easy  undulations,  with  a  belt 

Woven  of  bright  Apollo's  golden  hair. 

Nor,  when  that  arch,  in  winter's  clearest  night. 

Mantled  in  ebon  darkness,  strow'd  with  stars 

Its  canopy,  that  seem'd  to  swell,  and  swell 

The  higher,  as  I  gaz'd  upon  it,  till, 

Sphere  after  sphere  evolving,  on  the  height 

Of  heaven,  the  everlasting  throne  shone  through. 

In  glory's  full  effulgence,  and  a  wave, 

Intensely  bright,  roll'd,  like  a  fountain,  forth 

Beneath  its  sapphire  pedestal,  and  streamed 

Down  the  long  galaxy,  a  flood  of  snow, 


84 

Bathing  the  heavens  in  light,  the  spring,  that  gush'd, 

In  overflowing  richness,  from  the  breast 

Of  all-maternal  nature.     These  I  saw, 

And  felt  to  madness ;  but  my  full  heart  gave 

No  utterance  to  the  ineffable  within. 

Words  were  too  weak ;  they  were  unknown ;  but  still 

The  feeling  was  most  poignant :  it  has  gone  3 

And  all  the  deepest  flow  of  sounds,  that  e'er 

Pour'd,  in  a  torrent  fulness,  from  the  tongue, 

Rich  with  the  wealth  of  ancient  bards,  and  stor'd 

With  all,  the  patriarchs  of  British  song 

Hallow'd,  and  render'd  glorious,  cannot  tell 

Those  feelings,  which  have  died,  to  live  no  more. 


SONNET. 

FAREWELL,  sad  flowers^  that  on  a  desert  blow, 
Farewell !  I  pluck'd  you  from  the  muses'  bower.. 
And  wove  you  in  a  garland,  which  an  hour 

Might  on  my  aching  eye  enchantment  throw, — 

Your  leaves  are  pale  and  withered,  and  your  flow 
Of  perfume  wasted,  your  alluring  power 
Has  vanished  like  the  fleeting  April  shower; 

Too  lovely  flowers  to  spread  your  leaves  below — 

Sweet  flowers !  though  withered,  all  the  joy,  I  know, 
Is,  when  I  breathe  your  balm,  your  wreath  intwine 

And  earth  can  only  this  delight  bestow, 

That  sometimes  all  your  loveliness  is  mine ; 

And  then  my  frozen  heart  awhile  will  glow, 
And  life  have  moments,  in  its  path,  divine ! 


ESSAYS. 


';  Justum  et  tenacem  propositi  virum." 

WHAT  is  magnanimity  ?  what  is  that  nobleness  of  soul,  oi 
which  so  much  is  said  and  written,  which  we  are  so  ready  to 
admire,  and  so  backward  to  imitate  ?  Is  it  merely  a  name,  or 
has  it  an  actual  existence  ?  It  has  been  on  the  tongues  of 
men  ever  since  Homer  spake  of  his  lion-hearted  heroes,  and 
the  Romans  of  their  Fabii  and  Catos.  Let  us  then  believe  it 
a  reality,  a  spirit,  which  has  been  abroad  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
and  acting  in  the  bosoms  of,  at  least,  a  few.  Let  us  look 
upon  it  as  a  something,  which  can  be  felt  and  imitated,  and 
on  which  it  is  good  to  ponder.  In  this  liberal  age,  all  men  are 
allowed  to  form  and  express  their  opinions  freely.  I  shall 
therefore  be  allowed  to  think  and  write,  even  on  such  a  sub 
ject  as  this.  Perhaps  I  may  find  it  difficult  to  use  the  cool 
and  deliberate  language  of  philosophy,  especially  on  so  lifting 
a  topic ;  but  for  once  I  will  try. 

Magnanimity  is  a  habitual  elevation  of  mind,  arising  from 
a  sense  of  personal  worth,  and  a  just  estimation  of  human  na 
ture.  It  is  an  absolute  and  a  relative  feeling :  relative  as  it  is 
a  consciousness  of  elevation  above  those  habits,  which  render 
others  contemptible ;  and  absolute,  as  it  is  a  sense  of  approxi 
mation  towards  that  ideal  of  moral  and  intellectual  excel 
lence,  which  the  mind  can  form.  In  some  more  favoured 
individuals,  it  seems  to  be  instinctive :  that  nice  sense  of  na 
tural  honour,  which  feels  the  least  approach  of  contamination, 
and  repels  it  with  indignant  energy.  But  in  others,  either 
from  an  original  weakness,  which  puts  them  in  perpetual  war 
fare  between  their  just  views  and  good  wishes,  and  their  dr 
8 


86 

pressing  propensities,  or  from  a  defective  education,  which 
has  left  its  early  and  indelible  taint  on  their  character,  this 
feeling  is  an  acquired  property,  learned  from  the  writings  and 
the  society  of  great  and  noble  spirits,  and  which  sometimes, 
from  a  deep  experience  of  the  bitter  evils  of  a  low  and  de 
grading  conduct,  is  more  active,  more  sensitive,  and  more 
towering,  than  that,  which  is  the  simple  gift  of  nature. 

We  often  see  a  high  and  mighty  feeling  in  the  savage ;  a 
feeling,  that  repels  every  idea  of  low  advantage,  and  scorns 
to  triumph  over  the  weakness  of  a  fellow  creature.  This  is 
not  altogether  instinctive.  Rude  nations  often,  in  the  absence 
of  the  arts  of  civilization  and  luxury,  bestow  greater  attention 
on  the  culture  of  the  higher  feelings.  With  them  virtue  is 
courage,  fortitude,  greatness.  The  cultivation  of  the  un 
yielding,  unbending  spirit,  which  leaves  no  opening,  by 
which  others  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  weakness,  is  with  them  an 
object  of  as  careful  attention,  as  with  us  the  cultivation  of  sci 
ences  that  enlarge  and  enrich  the  mind,  or  of  arts  that  soften 
and  adorn  the  manners.  The  brightest  examples  of  magna 
nimity  are  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  rude  nations.  The 
greatest  sacrifice  of  interest,  the  purest  simplicity  of  life,  and 
the  steadiest  and  firmest  energy  of  purpose,  must  be  looked 
for  in  those  periods,  when  wealth  and  luxury  had  made  little 
advances,  and  when  men  were  estimated  more  by  their  per 
sonal  qualities,  than  by  circumstance  of  fortune.  The  word 
chieftain,  in  Greek,  was  synonymous  with  excellent,  and  that 
excellence  was  tnade  to  consist  in  the  strong  and  manly  vir 
tues,  in  true  magnanimity  of  soul.  Their  nobles  were,  at  first, 
men,  who,  by  the  superiority  of  their  character  and  conduct, 
had  gained  an  ascendency  over  poorer  spirits,  and  had  thrown 
around  themselves  the  sanctity  of  higher  beings.  They  were 
indeed  noble.  Theirs  was  a  nobility,  whose  patent  is  from 
God  Almighty,  whose  only  badge  is  a  pure,  a  generous,  and  a 
lofty  life ;  an  aristocracy,  that  always  has  existed,  and  I  hope 
and  trust,  always  will  exist;  the  aristocracy  of  talent,  of 


87 

knowledge,  and  of  virtue,  which  will  stand  unmoved  and  un 
broken,  like  the  brave  three  hundred,  among  crowds  of  de 
graded  and  effeminate  hirelings. 

Man  has,  in  his  constitution,  a  twofold  nature :  one,  whose 
tendency  is  upward;  another,  whose  tendency  is  downward. 
The  intellect,  the  taste,  and  the  kind  affections  constitute  the 
one ;  the  appetites,  and  the  violent  and  selfish  passions  the 
other.  All  these  are  necessary  to  our  existence.  Those  pro 
pensities,  which  seem  to  us  base  in  themselves,  are  so  only 
from  their  abuse.  They  do  not  indeed  admit  of  cultivation. 
They  are  only  sentinels  on  the  watch  against  injuries,  which 
might  suddenly  destroy  us,  or  prompters  to  the  exercise  of 
those  functions,  without  which  the  animal  machine  must  stop 
its  motions.  They  have  their  natural  and  healthful  state,  and 
this  cannot  be  disturbed  without  doing  mischief.  As  they  are 
at  the  first  dawn  of  life,  so  they  should  continue  throughout 
its  whole  progress.  They  ask  no  improvement  ;  for  who  can 
improve  the  workmanship  of  the  Creator  ?  We  cannot  teach 
the  taste  to  select  better  food,  nor  the  stomach  to  perform 
better  the  office  of  digestion.  What  the  palate  instinctively 
refuses,  it  is  cruelty  to  attempt  teaching  it  to  relish.  Here  is 
a  mistake,  which  has  cost  many  a  child  his  health,  and  the 
happiness  of  his  life.  When  this  sentinel  to  one  appetite  has 
been  bribed  into  infidelity,  every  physical  guard  against  the 
most  degrading  vices  is  broken  down :  for  the  appetites  arc. 
linked  together  like  brethren;  the  excitement  of  one  is  the 
instigation  of  the  others ;  and  he,  who  early  initiates  a  child 
in  the  pleasures  of  the  palate,  can  only  look  forward  to  a  mad 
career  in  every  vice  that  degrades  and  destroys.  All  then, 
that  has  been  done  in  the  arts  of  luxury,  has  been  only  a 
perversion,  not  an  improvement  on  the  ignorance  of  nature 
The  appetites  and  the  passions  should  be  left  as  they  were 
created,  or  they  are  corrupted.  We  must  here  return  to  the 
utter  simplicity  of  the  most  savage  life,  or  we  cannot  boast  of 
that  integrity  of  virtue,  of  which  the  human  powers  are  ca 
pable. 


88 

But  it  is  not  so  with  the  higher  nature  of  man.  That  is 
capable  of  great,  of  indefinite  improvement.  It  is  impossible 
to  fix  the  line,  beyond  which  it  can  go  no  farther.  This  is 
different  in  different  individuals ;  for  every  man  has  dealt  out 
to  him  his  peculiar  measure  of  talent.  Only  one  general  rule 
can  be  laid  down  in  the  developement  of  the  higher  powers. 
Let  it  be  moderate.  This  word  contains  in  itself  the  grand 
arcanum  of  all  solid  improvement  and  real  happiness.  The 
moderate,  the  regular,  and  the  progressive  improvement  oi 
our  better  faculties,  and  the  dispensation  of  their  fruits  in 
promoting  the  happiness  of  others,  will  then  be  the  great  ob 
ject  of  every  noble  mind.  He  will  use  every  means  of  direct 
advancement  in  his  truly  celestial  purpose,  and  shun  every 
thing,  which  can  retard  his  progress :  and  since  nothing  is  so 
deadly  to  growth  in  knowledge  and  virtue  as  sensuality  and 
selfishness,  he  will  ever  keep  a  dragon's  watch  against  those 
insidious  enemies,  and  feel  the  slightest  submission  to  them, 
as  a  reproach,  that  can  only  be  wiped  off  by  increased  exer 
tion,  and  a  wound,  whose  agony  tingles  through  his  vitals. 

In  the  first  place  then,  the  truly  magnanimous  man  with 
draws  from  every  thing  sensual  and  selfish,  and  lives  in  a 
purely  intellectual  and  moral  atmosphere.  He  considers  his 
senses  and  his  appetites,  as  made  for  no  other  purpose,  but 
the  preservation  of  life  and  health,  and  the  introduction  of  a 
knowledge  of  outward  things.  When  employed  for  the  mere 
purposes  of  pleasure  they  are  most  dangerously  abused;  for 
every  poignant  pleasure  is  an  undue  excitement,  and  with  un 
erring  certainty  saps  the  foundations  of  that  health,  on  which 
all  the  security  of  life,  the  purity  of  virtue,  and  the  vigour  oi' 
mind,  depend.  With  this  feeling,  he  is  perfectly  indifferent 
to  the  style  and  materials  of  his  food,  his  dress,  and  his  habi 
tation,  if  they  be  only  neat  and  healthful.  The  greatest  philo 
sopher  of  antiquity  was  remarkable  for  concinnity  in  all  things, 
in  dress,  in  manners,  in  thought  and  language ;  and  indeed  thi? 
is  a  sure  criterion  of  a  pure  and  elevated  mind.  Strong  genius 
may  be  connected  with  cynic  negligence :  but  such  a  man  if 


defective  in  that  magnanimity,  which  revolts  at  every  depart 
ure  from  strict  propriety.  Concinnity  will  then  be  a  first 
trait  in  the  character  of  a  truly  great  man.  This  regard  to 
neatness  will  never  extend  beyond  the  simple  elegance  of  na 
ture.  Every  thing  affected  and  finical  he  will  abhor.  He 
will  not,  with  a  puritanic  strictness,  condemn  the  elegancies 
of  polite  life.  He  will  consider  them  as  wholesome  fruits  of 
taste,  so  long  as  they  are  marked  by  simplicity :  it  is  only 
when  they  are  debased  by  foppery,  that  he  will  condemn 
them.  There  will  always  be  present  to  such  a  mind  objects 
of  too  grand  and  overwhelming  an  interest,  to  allow  him  to 
take  a  deep  concern  in  the  fine  arts ;  but  as  long  as  they  are 
kept  within  the  bounds  of  a  virtuous  propriety,  he  will  look 
upon  them  with  complacent  feelings,  and  consider  them  as 
means  of  calling  forth  our  better  nature,  and  of  elevating  us 
above  those  animal  propensities,  which  are  ever  stealing  on 
the  idle  and  unemployed. 

He  will  be,  in  every  thing,  exact.  Time  will  be  to  him  of 
inestimable  value,  the  wealth  of  life.  To  make  the  most  of 
the  allotted  period  of  existence,  he  will  lay  off  his  duties  with 
a  strictness  of  calculation,  that  will  leave  no  moments  to  run 
to  waste.  He  will  consider  himself  endowed  with  great  and 
improveable  powers.  He  will  therefore  preserve,  with  all 
his  care,  that  health,  which  is  the  substratum  of  those 
powers,  and  employ,  with  the  exactest  diligence,  that  time, 
in  which  he  is  to  give  them  all  the  improvement,  this 
state  of  being  will  allow.  His  whole  life  will  be  one  course 
of  self-instruction,  and  he  will  terminate  his  education  only 
at  the  grave.  With  the  tenfold  agony  of  Titus,  he  will  ex 
claim  over  the  smallest  waste  of  this  most  precious  gift,  "  J 
have  lost  an  hour."  His  mind  will  be  alive  with  an  eager 
Icmging  for  all  philosophy.  There  will  ever  be  present  a 
curiosity  to  grasp  at  factSj  and  thoughts  unwearied  in  arrang 
ing  them  in  just  and  useful  principles.  He  would  be  rich  in 
all,  that  can  enlarge  his  sphere  of  intellectual  vision,  that  can 
8* 


90 

reveal  the  purpose  of  his  being  and  the  powers  of  his  nature, 
that  can'  render  him  more  fitted  to  secure  his  own  happiness, 
and  promote  the  good  of  his  fellow  creatures,  and  that  can 
lift  him  from  that  pit  of  degradation,  where  he  sees  the 
crowd  for  ever  sinking,  and  from  which  he  finds  it  so  hard  to 
escape. 

But  in  all  this  he  will  be  moderate.  Close  attention  to  pre 
sent  perceptions,  and  a  slow  and  sure  admission  of  them, 
will  characterize  the  whole  course  of  his  reflections  and  stu 
dies.  He  will  not  think  that  day  lost,  which  fixes  in  his  mind 
one  just  principle.  He  will  not  grasp  a  multitude  of  objects 
at  once ;  but  will  give  his  undivided  powers  to  one  truth  at 
one  time.  What  he  thus  learns,  he  will  know  well;  and 
what  he  once  knows,  he  will  hardly  forget:  for  his  knowledge 
will  be  appropriated,  a  portion  of  his  own  mind,  mixing  in  all 
his  reflections  with  the  readiness  of  instinct.  He  will  seek 
his  knowledge,  in  the  main,  from  nature ;  though  he  will  not 
neglect  books.  He  will  give  them  their  just  value.  He  will 
look  upon  them,  as  the  recorded  thoughts  of  other  men,  who 
went,  like  him,  in  the  last  resort,  to  nature.  He  will  weigh 
them  in  the  balance  of  his  judgment;  and  if  he  finds  them 
coinciding  with  the  dictates  of  his  own  common  sense,  and 
with  the  contents  of  that  volume,  which  is  open  to  the  inspec 
tion  of  all,  he  will  give  them  his  confidence,  and  store  them 
in  his  memory,  to  whatever  age,  or  nation,  or  party,  or  indi 
vidual,  they  may  belong. 

But  his  moderation  will  be  active ;  an  ever  onward  course 
of  well-doing,  rapid  though  equable,  energetic  though  calm. 
He  will  put  forth  his  greatest  strength  in  awakening  men 
from  the  apathy  of  vice  and  indolence,  and  guide  them,  when 
excited,  with  a  steadier  hand.  He  will  combine  in  himself 
the  rarely  blended  qualities  of  firmness  in  resisting,  and 
quickness  in  execution.  If  he  find  his  fellow  citizens  slum 
bering  beneath  the  oppression  of  tyrannic  power,  he  will  put 
forth  the  fire  of  his  spirit  in  alarming  them ;  and  when  they 
sro  drawn  out  in  array  against  their  oppressors,  his  conduct 


91 

will  be  cool  and  determined,  bracing  them  with  unshaken 
firmness  against  the  force,  that  would  subdue  them,  and  re 
straining-  from  excesses  the  indignation  of  insulted  freemen, 
This  kind  of  character  is  indeed  rare.  We  have  more  usually 
seen  wholesome  revolutions  begun  by  one  class  of  men,  and 
perfected  by  another.  The  violent  sow  the  seed,  and  men  of 
calm  but  firm  souls  reap  the  harvest.  It  was  Washington 
and  Franklin  who  guided  that  storm,  which  Warren  and 
Henry  roused.  These  men  of  ardent  and  enthusiastic  energy 
are  often  of  inestimable  value.  They  are  the  lightnings, 
which  are  sometimes  wanted  to  purify  the  moral  atmosphere 
When  the  still  small  voice  of  the  man  of  gentle  virtues  is  una 
vailing,  they  waken  the  sinner  from  the  deep  sleep  of  his  vices, 
and  draw  out  the  better  spirit,  buried,  as  it  is,  beneath  years 
of  accumulated  offending.  It  is  in  darker  and  more  depraved 
societies,  that  such  men  are  needed.  They  are  violent  moral 
medicines  for  an  inveterate  disease.  When  the  populace  has 
become  servile,  degraded,  and  besotted;  when  the  chill  slum 
ber  of  moral  death  is  stealing  over  a  nation,  then  it  is,  we 
can  hail  the  fanaticism  of  Whitefield,  as  an  angel  of  mercy. 

With  the  truly  magnanimous  man  the  word  ecstasy  has  no 
meaning.  It  is  indeed  a  standing  out  from  that  firm  and  de 
termined  course,  he  has  laid  down,  which  nothing  can  induce 
him  to  alter.  He  allows  no  rising  beyond  that  fulness  of 
soul,  which  is  permanently  consistent  with  our  nature  He 
knows  that  intemperate  pleasures  are  only  transient  joys  pur 
chased  at  the  expense  of  lasting  sorrows.  He  knows,  that 
exactly  as  the  passions  and  sensations  are  exalted,  will  be 
the  consequent  degree  of  depression.  He  looks  with  pity  on 
those  devotees,  who  think  to  enjoy  the  raptures  of  heaven  in 
such  a  life  as  this ;  for  he  always  finds  them  ending  their  ca 
reer  in  exhaustion  and  premature  decay :  and  since  his  great 
aim  is  to  go  through  life  on  one  unbroken  level,  he  will  avoid 
every  lifting  of  the  spirit  above  its  common  measure,  as  one 
blow  in  a  sure  but  lingering  suicide.  He  stands,  like  a  rocl< 
in  the  midst  of  the  ocean,  looking  out  calm  and  unmoved  on 


92 

the  swelling  and  sinking  of  the  waves  around  it,  bright  in  the 
sunshine  and  still  in  the  tempest. 

He  lives  not  for  himself,  but  for  the  world.  He  knows  his 
own  just  claims,  and  the  inherent  rights  of  every  creature. 
The  great  aim  of  his  life  is  to  preserve  the  settled  order  of 
nature.  He  looks  on  the  universe  with  an  eye,  that  would 
comprehend  its  full  purposes,  and  every  glimpse  he  catches  of 
its  design,  he  treasures  up  as  a  law,  that  cannot  be  broken. 
He  therefore  looks  on  his  fellow  beings  with  the  eye  of  en 
lightened  benevolence ;  not  the  blind  yearning  of  a  morbid 
sensibility,  that  does  more  harm,  than  good,  by  its  kindness, 
but  that  discriminating  charity,  which  is  certain  its  efforts  will 
tend  to  the  ultimate  improvement  of  its  object.  He  knows  his 
powers  are  limited,  and  therefore  his  charity  begins  at  home. 
Liberal  views  and  feelings,  good  wishes,  an  entire  avoidance 
of  every  appropriating  act,  which  might  impoverish  others  to 
enrich  his  own,  and  the  free  effusion  of  his  just  views  and 
wholesome  principles,  will  form  the  greater  portion  of  his 
foreign  benevolence.  At  home,  in  his  own  peculiar  society, 
in  his  state,  or  nation,  he  will  cultivate  all  the  better  powers, 
he  will  exterminate  every  habit,  that  corrupts,  distresses,  or 
destroys,  and  he  will  raise  an  impenetrable  bulwark  against 
all  foreign  encroachment.  His  patriotism  will  be  confined  to 
this:  to  secure  to  his  own  citizens  their  just  and  natural 
rights.  He  will  be  as  anxious  that  his  own  nation  leave  to 
other  nations  the  same  privilege  entire,  as  he  will  be  to  pro 
tect  his  own  country  from  invasion.  He  will  therefore  never 
appear  in  arms,  bvit  in  national  and  self-defence. 

As  he  forms  a  just  view  of  the  entire  human  family,  he  will 
never  exalt  himself  above  his  just  rank.  He  will  never  allow 
another  to  rise  above  him ;  and  he  will  be  equally  unwilling  to 
rise  above  anoth'er.  He  knows,  that  the  superiority  of  his 
character  gives  him  an  ascendency ;  but  he  will  employ  it  only 
in  lifting  others  to  his  own  level.  Above  all  things,  he  will 
scorn  to  take  advantage  of  the  weakness  of  another.  He  will 
therefore  never  be  rich  by  his  own  efforts.  He  will  remember 


93 

the  ancient  proverb,  "  no  man  can  suddenly  grow  rich,  and  be 
just."  He  will  place  his  dignity  in  himself,  and  not  in  the  pa 
rade  around  him.  His  wants  will  be  few ;  for  he  will  be  tem 
perate  both  in  body  and  mind.  He  will  not  need  a  rich  table ; 
for  the  supper  of  Curius  would  satisfy  his  simple  appetite.  He 
will  not  need  a  rich  library :  for  he  will  read  few  books ;  but 
those  will  be  well  chosen,  and  well  digested.  He  will  not  need 
a  splendid  house,  or  furniture,  or  equipage :  for  what  external 
display  can  add  to  the  greatness  of  talent,  knowledge,  and 
virtue ;  or  bolster  up  vice  and  insignificance ;  and  why  should 
he  suiTound  himself  with  pomp  and  splendour,  when  his  Crea 
tor  surrounds  him  daily,  with  a  richness  in  the  earth  and 
heavens,  that  sinks  the  proudest  efforts  of  art  to  trifles.  And 
why  should  he  seek  treasures  for  charity,  when  he  knows, 
that,  lavished  without  care,  they  only  corrupt,  and  that  the 
truly  benevolent  man  has  little  need  of  them,  in  executing  his 
godlike  purpose  of  rendering  men  industrious  and  temperate, 
that  they  may  be  happy.  Indeed  he  looks  on  what  the  world 
calls  wealth,  as  the  most  insignificant  thing  in  existence; 
merely  a  phantom,  which  makes  men  active  in  its  pursuit, 
but  as  unprincipled  as  active ;  and  which  spoils  them  when 
overtaken.  He  never  leans  on  the  strength  of  family  records, 
and  pictures;  but  he  looks  on  the  bright  deeds  of  his  fathers, 
only  to  gather  fresh  incentives  to  well-doing. 

His  manners  will  be  elevated,  but  not  insolent.  He  will  not 
creep  along  with  puritanic  demureness ;  but  will  walk  erect 
with  all  the  generous  elevation  of  Homer's  courser.  His  will 
be  a  dignity  founded  on  a  consciousness  of  personal  value : 
not  that  pride,  which  struts  in  a  little  brief  authority,  and 
swells  itself  with  the  adventitious  circumstances  of  birth  and 
fortune.  Is  he  the  master  of  his  passions,  the  lord  of  his  ap 
petites,  rich  in  high  and  useful  knowledge,  in  warm  and  gene 
rous  feelings,  in  grand  and  resolved  purposes,  and  in  liberal 
and  extensive  views?  he  has  indeed  reason  for  exultation, 
and  cause  to  be  proud  of  his  own  worth :  but  his  will  be  a 
pride,  which  ha«  nothing  supercilious,  nothing  overbearing1; 


94 

that  dignity,  which  warms  and  gladdens,  not  that  haughtiness, 
which  blasts  and  destroys ;  the  serene  elevation  of  a  mind,  al 
ways  moving  in  a  pure  and  lofty  region,  mingling  alone  with 
greater  thoughts  and  nobler  feelings,  and  communicating  its 
own  majesty  to  every  look,  and  attitude,  and  motion. 

The  word  resentment  has  no  place  in  his  vocabulary.  He 
utterly  discards  duelling,  as  a  monstrous  relic  of  a  savage  state, 
which  lingers  around  us,  as  if  to  remind  us  of  the  violence  and 
madness,  from  which  we  have  emerged.  Is  a  slight  insult  of 
fered  him  ?  He  shakes  it  off,  like  dew  from  the  lion's  mane. 
Is  he  more  basely  insulted  ?  He  thinks  it  punishment  enough 
to  let  the  villain  live,  and  wither  under  the  proud  glance  of 
his  scorn.  Is  he  injured,  so  that  the  peace  of  his  family  and 
society  is  concerned?  The  strong  arm  of  the  law  is  then  his 
only  avenger.  He  is  not  a  man  to  be  led  away  by  names. 
He  thinks  him  the  braver  man,  who,  in  the  face  of  public  opi 
nion,  dares  to  obey  the  dictates  of  truth  and  justice ;  not  him, 
who  bows  to  the  tyranny  of  custom,  and  yields  up  his  life  at 
her  blood-stained  altar.  He  holds,  in  utter  contempt,  that 
courage,  which  dares  not  do  right,  though  the  whole  world  be 
in  arms  against,  it ;  but  will  madly  risk  destruction  to  gain  the 
senseless  applause  of  a  mob.  If  human  life  be  sought  with  the 
purpose  of  revenge ;  he  thinks  the  guilt  as  deep,  whether  the 
murderer  offer  his  own  life  on  equal  terms,  or  steal  upon  his 
enemy  in  darkness.  He  considers  that  honour,  which  cannot 
be  supported  by  a  steady  virtue,  and  a  lofty  forgiveness,  as 
falsely  usurping  the  name,  and  deserving  no  better  title  than 
dastardly  meanness.  He  calls  things  by  their  just  names. 
He  does  not  smooth  over,  with  gentle  epithets,  base  amuse 
ments  and  criminal  pleasures,  because  they  are  loved  and 
sanctioned  by  the  splendid  and  the  gay.  He  thinks  it  as  cruel 
to  lash  a  generous  horse  to  the  last  efforts  of  his  speed,  as  to 
let  loose  on  each  other  the  fury  of  ferocious  animals.  He 
does  not  give  a  softer  name  to  the  elegant  intemperance  of 
the  rich,  than  to  the  sordid  vices  of  the  poor;  but  he  embraces 
them  both  within  the  sweep  of  his  unsparing  malediction. 


95 

As  his  first  object  is  truth,  he  will  never  cling  to  his  own 
mistakes.  He  will  be  as  ready  to  confess  his  errors,  as  to 
claim  a  victory.  He  will  have  none  of  that  meanness,  which 
takes  fire,  when  corrected ;  but  he  will  think  his  just  adviser, 
his  best  friend.  He  will  consider  him,  one  who  has  saved  him 
from  exposing  himself  to  the  insolent  triumph  of  the  evil-mind 
ed,  and  who  has  lent  him  a  helping  hand  in  his  perpetual 
ascent  towards  a  pure  and  manly  virtue. 

Such  are  some  of  the  traits  of  a  magnanimous  character. 
How  worthy  of  all  praise  must  be  the  man,  who,  after  a  cruel 
education,  which  had  corrupted  his  youth,  and  robbed  it  of  the 
bloom  of  health  and  virtue,  has  yet  strength  enough  to  retrace 
his  steps,  and  press  on  with  undeviating  energy  in  the  right 
path,  regardless  of  the  scorn  of  the  unjust  and  the  unfeeling, 
the  coldness  of  friends,  the  defection  of  fonder  attachments, 
the  bitter  regret  of  past  errors,  the  loss  of  time  and  opportu 
nity,  the  depression  of  sickness  and  sorrow,  and  the  almost 
irresistible  call  of  habits,  which  bark  around  him,  like  the 
dogs  of  the  furies.  He,  who  can  resist  all  this,  and  go  on  de 
termined  in  wisdom  and  goodness,  is  a  hero  far  greater,  than 
the  victor,  who  rides  over  death  to  empire. 


[I  have  here  attempted  to  sketch  a  picture  of  the  feelings  and 
musings  of  an  imaginative  mind.  I  have  adopted  a  pecu 
liar  style,  because  it  seemed  to  coincide  with  the  nature  of 
the  subject,  and  my  own  feelings,  when  I  wrote  it.  Writer? 
are  allowed  to  adopt  different  styles  and  measures  in  poetry 
— why  not  different  dictions  in  prose  ?] 

"  Ego,  apis  Matinee 
More  modoqve." 

THAT  the  minds,  the  tempers,  and  the  intellectual  and  mo 
ral  powers  of  individuals  are  as  different,  as  their  forms,  their 


96 

features,  their  health,  and  their  vigour,  is  a  truth  as  evident  to 
me,  as  any  truth,  which  does  not  admit  of  absolute  demonstra 
tion.  Some  men  are  endowed  by  nature  with  great  vigour  of 
mind  and  body,  capable  of  long-continued  and  gigantic  efforts ; 
but  moving  in  all  their  operations  slowly,  though  surely. 
These  men  often  show  a  degree  of  obtuseness  in  childhood, 
which  leads  the  less  sagacious  to  augur  nothing  good  of  their 
maturer  years ;  but  strength,  exactness,  and  perseverance,  be 
come  to  them  the  certain  means  of  high  and  permanent  ad 
vancement  ;  and  although  they  never  can  pour  around  them 
the  lightnings  and  terrors  of  genius,  yet  they  render  the  whole 
circle  of  their  life  one  day  of  warm  bright  sunshine.  Others 
endowed  with  that  fearful  and  mysterious  gift  of  genius, 
which  the  world  has  so  often  worshipped  for  its  resistless  mani 
festations,  and  neglected  for  its  repulsive  irregularities;  high- 
toned,  irritable,  feeling  every  sense  of  pleasure  and  pain  with 
the  poignancy  of  agony  or  rapture ;  moving  with  the  rapidity, 
the  eccentricity,  and  the  ominous  glare  of  a  comet ;  never  mo 
derate  in  their  desires  and  endeavours ;  now  springing  with  the 
collected  energy  of  an  eagle  to  some  high  and  unattainable  glo 
ry,  and  then  sinking  down  exhausted,  and  brooding,  in  all  the 
bitterness  of  despair,  over  the  wrecks  of  their  celestial  long 
ings;  now  giving  their  intellectual  powers,  with  a  lavishing 
madness,  to  the  instant  comprehension  of  truths,  which  should 
have  required  a  long  and  calm  investigation,  and  then  exclaim 
ing,  in  weary  listlessness,  against  the  folly  and  nothingness  of 
every  exertion  to  be  wise,  or  great,  or  good  :  these  men,  who, 
ia  their  stronger  and  darker  deeds,  put  forth  the  intellectual 
might  of  Milton's  Satan,  and  who,  could  their  efforts  be  justly 
directed,  would  always  move  on,  like  the  sun  in  his  unclouded 
summer  glories,  diffusing  life  and  warmth  to  all  around  them ; 
these  men,  after  an  agitated  life,  in  which  health  and  honour, 
and  peace  and  friendship,  have  been  sacrificed  to  sudden  and 
impetuous  feelings,  after  every  suffering  of  body,  and  torture 
of  mind  have  been  endured,  go  down,  neglected  and  unlament- 
ed,  to  an  early  grave,  and  leave  the  world  astonished,  that  one 


97 

3>eing  could  unite  in  himself  energies,  which  command  even 
awe  and  admiration,  and  weaknesses,  which  fill  us  with  pity 
and  contempt. 

And  that  such  men  should  be  neglected  by  the  soberer  part 
of  the  world  is  nothing  wonderful.  Men  do  not  like  to  be  daz 
zled.  They  can  enjoy  a  warm  soft  sunshine,  and  feel  emo 
tions  of  thankfulness  to  the  dispenser  of  so  comfortable  a  sen 
sation  ;  but  they  close  their  eyes  against  a  brilliancy  too  strong 
for  their  feeble  organs,  and  feel  only  pain,  where  intellects, 
keener  and  more  exalted,  gaze  with  pleasure.  Besides  the 
mass  of  the  world  go  through  life  in  search  of  comfort  and 
present  enjoyment ;  or  they  spend  all  their  efforts  in  hedg 
ing  in  themselves  and  their  families  with  a  circumvallation  of 
earthly  treasures,  and  then  look  out  from  the  loop-holes  of 
their  strong  castles  in  proud  defiance,  on  the  crowd,  who  wan 
der  unsheltered  around  them.  The  far-off  blessings,  which 
the  etherealized  imagination  is  always  dreaming  of,  and  never 
reaches,  have  no  community  with  their  more  fleshly  spirits, 
and  they  either  profess  to  look  with  contempt  on  these  insane 
reveries ;  or  they  pour  upon  them  the  anathemas  of  a  moody 
religion,  which  would  cramp  the  expandings  and  aspirings  of 
our  higher  nature  within  the  allowed  hopes  and  prospects  of 
a  bigot's  creed. 

There  is  a  fountain  of  thought  and  feeling,  in  those  chosen 
spirits,  which  is  ever  springing  up  fresh  and  full,  and  pouring 
over  the  richness  of  its  treasures  on  all  things  around  it, 
giving  them  hues,  which  they  have  not  in  themselves,  and'co- 
vering  them  with  a  luxuriance,  which  another  and  a  colder 
heart  would  not  find  around  them,  and  making  of  the  barren- 
est  spot  an  Eden,  and  of  the  driest  desert  a  land  of  brooks  and 
water  courses. 

They  have  within  them  too  a  creative  energy,  which  culls. 

from  the  stores  of  memory,  the  choicest  and  the  fairest,  and 

forms  them  into  landscapes  of  surpassing  loveliness,  a  rich  and 

harmonizing  union  of  mountain  and  valley,  where  the  sunlit 

0 


98 

rock  lifts  its  bald  forehead  from  the  deep  gloom  of  forests? 
and  the  leaves  are  moving1  in  the  wind,  and  twinkling  in  the 
sunbeams  ;  where  the  full  light  of  heaven  descends  and  rests  OB 
the  waving  meadow,  and  the  brook  steals  along  from  rapid  to 
pool,  and  from  overbowering  shade  to  open  sunshine ;  where 
the  living  things  of  earth  are  asleep  in  their  midday  slumber, 
and  nothing  is  heard,  but  the  solitary  whistle  of  the  Phebe  in 
the  dank  hollow,  and  the  chirp  of  the  locust  on  the  oak-top ; 
where  the  heart  goes  away  to  the  blue  sky,  and  the  white 
clouds  that  sleep  around  it,  to  meet  the  spirits  of  departed 
pleasures ;  where  it  finds  its  loved  ones  in  their  earliest  beauty, 
and  lives  over  the  hallowed  moments  of  condensed  beatitude, 
and  forgets,  for  awhile,  it  is  still  dwelling  on  earth,  and  thinks 
it  has  taken  a  last  leave  of  its  grosser  incumbrances,  and  is 
now  a  pure  and  winged  spirit  in  the  bright  and  boundless  sea 
of  immortality. 

And  if  ever  there  are  moments,  which  one  would  wish  to  live 
over  again,  which  leave  no  stain  upon  the  spirit,  and  no  wounds 
to  fester  in  the  bosom,  and  are  to  us,  as  gay  islands,  in  the  cold 
and  stormy  ocean  we  are  sailing  over ;  it  is,  when  the  pure  na 
ture  within  us  has  thrown  ofi"  the  shackles  of  chilling  w  ant  and 
besetting  appetite,  and  has  entered  into  communion  with  its 
better  feelings,  and  holier  aspirations ;  when  it  has  forgotten 
itself  in  its  minglings  with  kindred  spirits,  and  has  found  ab 
sorbing  ecstasies  in  the  communication  of  mutual  blessings ; 
when  it  has  given  to  another  and  a  dear  one  a  new  pleasure 
of  taste  or  tenderness,  and  has  taken  back  in  return  the  kind 
look  and  the  delighted  accent ;  when  it  has  felt,  as  the  blended 
feelings  partook  deeper  and  deeper  of  the  same  enjoyment, 
a  linking  together  of  two  existences,  till  every  thought,  and 
glance,  and  motion,  seemed  in  unison,  and  one  could  not  be 
joyous,  and  the  other  unhappy,  and  the  tear  could  not  rise  on 
one  eyelid,  and  the  other's  heart  not  overflow  in  sympathetic 
sorrow. 

And  who  would  wish  to  rob  the  feeling  mind  of  his  ideal 
happiness,  and  call  down  his  imagination,  now  revelling  in 


99 

bowers  of  Eden,  and  rejoicing-  with  angels  and  blessed  spirits 
in  the  undiscovered  mansions  of  a  long-wished-for  hereafter : 
where  he  has  pictured  his  companions  in  all  the  perfectners 
of  form,  and  charm  of  feature,  that  ever  poet  conceived,  o; 
painter  embodied,  and  has  taken  the  flowers  and  the  birds, 
when  the  sweetest  and  the  fairest,  and  the  thinking  and  feel 
ing  beings  of  his  paradise,  when  youngest  and  gayest,  in  the 
glad  season  of  life's  spring,  when  taste  is  nature,  and  sensibi 
lity  the  untaught  movings  of  a  stainless  bosom  ;  where  he  has 
made  them  sleepless  in  delight,  and  ever  active  in  enjoyment, 
looking  on  all  around  them  with  the  keen  glance  of  novelty, 
catching  at  once  the  fitness  of  groupings,  and  the  har 
mony  of  motion  and  expression  with  the  thoughts  within 
them,  and  never  knowing  what  it  is  to  have  the  dull  call  of 
unfeeling  command  breaking  in  upon  their  lovely  musings, 
and  marring  the  beauty  of  a  high-wrought  fancy-piece  with 
the  heavy  obtrusion  of  some  homely  and  spiritless  labour. 

These  minds  of  fine  and  ethereal  texture  are  indeed  not 
made  for  the  inevitable  toils  and  crosses  of  a  life  like  this. 
They  are  always  connected  with  a  constitution  so  delicate, 
and  so  sensible  to  every  touch,  that  the  slightest  breeze  of 
misfortune  raffles  them,  and  a  neglect,  at  which  heartier  spi 
rits  would  laugh  in  their  reckless  independence,  weighs  upon 
them,  and  bows  them,  till  the  air  around  them  is  unmingled 
blackness,  and  the  sickened  ear  is  shocked  with  the  liveliest 
music,  and  the  heart  is  ready,  in  its  bitterness,  to  say,  that 
all  on  earth,  that  is  sweet  and  fair,  is  a  mockery,  and  exist 
ence  but  an  ugly  dream. 

And  if  they  attempt  to  throw  off  the  gloom,  that  weighs  >•<« 
heavily  upon  them,  and  to  mingle  in  the  press  and  jostle  of  u 
busy  world,  they  find  their  souls  grow  dead  and  senseless, 
unmoved  by  the  fine  touch  of  beauty,  and  unmelted  by  the 
tender;  then  they  grow  disgusted  with  their  coarseness,  and 
think  they  have  put  away  the  charm  of  their  better  nature-, 
and  are  ashamed,  that  they  can  stoop  to  grosser  indulgences, 
and  waste  their  hours  in  rude  and  heartless  merriment,  that 


100 

they  can  look  upon  another's  suffering  with  dull  emotion, 
and  be  contented r  like  the  many,  to  gather  wherever  a  har 
vest  is  offered,  and  ask  not,  whether  their  own  luxuries  be 
purchased  by  the  sparing  of  a  fellow  creature,  or  even 
wrenched  from  the  helpless  hand,  that  felt  in  losing  them,  as 
if  its  life  was  plundered,  and  the  fruit  of  long  and  patient 
toiling  torn  away  to  gladden  the  heart  of  a  greedy  tyrant. 

And  when  he  muses  on  this,  and  embraces,  in  the  grasp  of 
his  benevolence,  the  whole  world  of  feeling,  and  sees  how 
much  of  evil  is  endured,  and  how  inevitably  it  must  be  suf 
fered,  and  that  if  he  be  set  apart  in  a  purer  region,  it  is  only 
at  the  expense  of  another's  toil  and  privation,  he  then  begins 
to  feel,  that  there  is  even  a  sin  in  his  purer  musings;  and  ii 
he  return  from  the  noise  of  the  city  to  the  lonely  wood,  and 
the  secret  valley,  to  hold  communion  with  his  own  better 
thoughts,  to  recall  his  former  intercourse  with  ancient  wor 
thies,  and  to  renew  high  society  with  the  master  spirits,  who 
live  in  their  recorded  out-pouringsr  he  feels  that  he  is  taking 
from  the  accumulated  stores  of  beings,  who  might  equally 
relish  these  high  enjoyments,  but  whor  to  give  him  a  quiet 
and  a  shelter,  toil  on  through  the  weary  day  of  life,  bringing 
down  their  souls  from  their  native  quarry,  and  mixing  them 
with  grosser  things,  till  the  fine  spirit  is  evaporated,  and  no 
thing,  but  bitter  dregs,  is  left  to  be  drank  in  the  hopeless 
years  of  age  and  exhaustion. 

Then  a  new  feeling  rises  within  him,  and  he  wishes  to 
betake  himself  to  the  solitary  desert,  or  to  live  on  an  island 
in  the  lonely  ocean,  there  to  be  fed  by  the  toil  of  his  own 
hands  and  the  bounties  of  nature ;  and  as  he  had  before  fled 
from  the  society  of  living  men,  because  all  could  not  be  equal, 
so  he  would  now  abandon  his  books,  because  they  take  from 
him  the  power  of  independence,  and  steal  from  him  that  time, 
which  should  be  spent  in  more  gainful  labours,  and  that 
strength,  which  should  supply  his  own  physical  necessities ; 
and  he  would  then  wish  to  divest  himself  of  every  thought, 
he  had  borrowed  from  others,  to  return  to  the  simple  igno- 


101 

ranee  of  childhood,  and  be  the  pupil  of  none  but  nature;  and 
while  his  hand  ministered  to  his  unavoidable  wants,  wander 
with  his  eye  over  the  glories  before  him,  and  find  his  only  re 
velation  in  the  bright  sky,  and  the  green  hills,  and  the  bltu 
billows,  his  only  worship  in  the  spontaneous  adoration  of  ;i 
pure  spirit,  when  it  drinks  in  the  simple  loveliness  of  nature, 
his  only  temple  the  wide  arch,  that  bends  over  him,  with  it» 
mountain  pillars,  its  starry  lamps,  and  its  floor  of  earth  and 
ocean,  and  his  only  music,  the  out-breakings  of  joy  in  the 
notes  of  wild  birds,  and  the  vernal  cry  of  reptiles,  the  rush  cf 
winds  through  the  forests,  and  the  far-off  roaring  of  uplifted 
waters;  till  his  mind  should  return  to  its  pristine  health 
and  delicacy,  be  alive  to  every  tender  emotion,  and  sensible 
to  every  moral  blemish,  and  shrink  from  contamination,  as 
from  a  deadly  and  destroying  venom;  till  he  should  at  last 
see,  that  if  man  would  equably  employ  his  various  faculties, 
and  keep  the  golden  rule  of  moderation  in  all  thing?,  would 
never  pervert  the  untaught  feelings  of  nature,  nor  yield  to 
the  impulse  of  sense  or  selfishness,  would  be  satisfied  to  be 
like  his  fellows,  and  believe  the  grandest  rank  is  that  of  un 
blemished  virtue,  that  he  need  not  go  away  to  imagined  island*, 
or  snowclad  mountains,  or  mansions  beyond  this  sublunary 
world,  for  the  Eden  of  his  heart,  and  the  heaven  of  his  fancy. 
Then,  in  the  overpowering  wish  for  the  perfection  he  can 
picture,  the  wild  longing  for  the  freedom  he  aspires  to,  and 
the  hope  that  these  high  aspirations  are  not  all  a  chimera,  he 
wanders  forth  amid  the  rudest  and  the  grandest  forms  of  na 
ture,  and  feels  his  spirit  harmonizing  with  their  gloom  and 
vastness ;  he  looks  abroad  from  the  mountain  peak,  and  re 
joices,  that  he  is  so  far  away  from  the  dim  abodes  of  wretch 
edness,  and  so  far  above  the  smoke  of  cities;  he  gladdens 
In  the  sun,  as  it  rolls  more  brightly  over  him,  and  is  braced 
and  exhilarated  by  the  pure  wind,  that  rushes  around  him; 
and  he  envies  the  eagle  his  wings,  and  thinks,  if  he  could 
mount  on  as  strong  a  pinion,  he  would  not  wheel  around  those 

9* 


102 

rocks,  and  prowl  on  the  farms  below  them,  but  would  stretch 
away  to  some  fairy  island,  at  a  returnless  distance,  and  be 
happy  in  the  company  of  ministering  spirits  and  pure  intelli 
gences. 

Then  his  mind  takes  a  new  energy,  and  his  soul  feels 
quickened  to  a  new  creation ;  there  comes  down  to  him  a 
fire  from  the  celestial  altar,  and  he  is  rapt  and  beatified; 
his  thoughts  rush  along  like  a  mighty  river,  the  well- 
spring  of  memory  is  broken  up,  and  the  images,  that  he  has 
been  storing  in  years  of  solitary  study,  come  forth,  and  roll 
around  him  in  all  the  wildness  and  magnificence  of  a  stirred- 
up  ocean ;  then  he  hurries  over  the  sky,  and  sees  it  peopled 
ivith  bright  worlds  passing  away  into  the  measureless  distance 
of  space,  and  he  follows  them  in  all  their  orbits,  counts  their 
number,  and  marshals  the  hosts  of  heaven;  then  he  gazes 
on  the  clouds,  as  they  gather  around  the  high  peaks,  and 
sweep  away  over  the  valleys,  and  he  traces  their  forms  in  all 
their  folds  and  volumes,  he  sees  them  armed  with  lightnings, 
he  hears  the  thunder  bursting  on  the  mountains,  and  listens 
with  delight  to  the  countless  echoes  that  answer  from  rock 
and  valley ;  and  at  once  his  fancy  has  crossed  the  wide  sea, 
and  is  now  among  the  islands  of  perpetual  summer,  and  the 
night  is  still  and  bright  around  him,  the  black  sky  withdraws 
to  a  vaster  distance,  and  all  its  lights  are  keen  in  brightness, 
and  seem  to  hang  as  lamps  from  the  ebon  arch  above  them, 
the  air  is  silent,  the  winds  are  in  their  caverns,  the  leaf  hangs 
still  in  the  forest,  and  the  whole  world  seems  at  rest  and  quiet ; 
then  the  mirrored  sea  begins  to  rise  without  a  wind,  and  to 
roar  far  away  with  an  awful  warning,  and  a  little  cloud  rises 
on  the  skirts  of  heaven,  and  moves,  like  a  bird,  over  the  wa 
ters,  it  spreads  and  spreads  more  widely,  till  it  sweeps  the 
whole  width  of  heaven,  and  it  comes  on,  like  the  rapid  march 
of  a  destroying  army,  with  the  rush  of  winds,  the  roar  of 
thunders,  and  the  bursting  of  billows;  then  the  sea  as  tossed 
in  mountains,  the  foam  curls  over  its  wild  waves,  and  streams 
oa  the  tempest,  the  dashing  waters  rush  on  the  land  with  de- 


103 

vouring  fury,  the  broad  lightnings  launch  from  volume  to 
volume  of  the  black  tornado,  the  earth  is  dark  as  death,  and 
then  brighter  than  tenfold  noonday,  the  winds  sweep  the  land 
in  columned  fierceness,  and  forests  bow,  rocks  are  shivered ^ 
and  houses  fall  in  ruins,  the  rain  pours  in  a  sheet  of  waters, 
and  man  shrinks  to  the  earth,  and  feels  himself  a  cypher  amid 
the  madness  of  the  elements. 

Then  his  eye  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  distant  river,  as  it 
lies  in  the  gilding  of  noonlight;  and  his  fancy  is  like  a  fleet 
bird  hovering  around  all  the  shores  of  classic  and  tropic  love 
liness  ;  and  he  is  now  flitting  up  the  valley  of  lovely  Arno,  and 
the  bright  spires,  the  lofty  towers,  and  stately  palaces  of  Flo 
rence  are  rising  over  the  groves  of  elms  and  poplars,  the  mea 
dows  are  full  of  blossoms,  every  shade  is  living  with  music ,. 
and  every  bower  is  loud  with  mirth  and  dancing,  the  plains 
are  yellow  with  the  loaded  harvest,  the  hill-sides  are  hung 
with  blue  vineyards,  and  beyond  them  the  snow  of  the  Apen- 
nine  rests  on  a  sky  of  the  softest  and  purest  azure,  the  sun 
walks  over  this  Eden  in  cloudless  splendour,  the  earth  and 
the  heavens  are  beautifully  magnificent,  and  he  dreams  not, 
that  vice,  and  poverty,  and  slavery  are  festering  and  crouching 
on  a  soil,  which  should  only  be  fruitful  in  virtue  and  glory. 

And  then  he  is  away  among  the  Paphian  islands  of  the 
peaceful  ocean;  and  he  is  sitting  beneath  the  umbel  of  a 
palm-tree,  watching  the  dancing  of  its  long  spearlike  leaves, 

.and  the  waving  of  its  nodding  clusters,  in  the  Seabreeze,  that 
plays  around  them;  and  the  painted  birds,  in  their  gala  of 
gold  and  crimson,  come  and  go,  wheel  around,  and  settle  on 
the  branches,  and  they  sip  the  liquid  honey,  that  drops  from 

,  the  opening  blosoms,  and  snap  the  insects,  that  revel  in  the> 
sweets,  and  glance  in  the  sunbeams,  and  the  air  is  full  of  their 
busy  voices ;  again  they  rise  in  a  cloud,  and  are  floating  ofT 
to  a  richer  plunder,  their  wings  glitter  and  glow  in  the  clear 
light  that  rolls  around  them,  and  they  seem  like  a  curtain  of 
gems,  or  the  flow  of  a  silken  banner,  their  shrill  music  dies 
away  on  the  wind,  and  the  air  is  hushed  in  voluptuous  still-- 


104 

ness ;  then  the  green  thrush  comes  from  her  bushy  solitude, 
and  sits  on  the  palm-top,  she  sings  her  low  sweet  song,  and 
he  thinks  it  is  a  flute,  or  a  woman's  voice  complaining1  at  a 
distance  ;  then  he  is  awhile  at  home,  and  the  plaintive  air  of 
his  native  village  is  breathing  around  him,  his  heart  swells, 
and  the  tears  flow  unbidden,  he  feels  the  pang  of  sorrow 
cramp  his  bosom,  his  soul  is  melted,  and  his  whole  spirit  flows 
away  like  water.  Then  he  looks  out  on  the  ocean,  and  sees 
its  white  waves  breaking  on  the  coral  reef,  and  boiling  over 
on  the  still  lagoon,  and  the  feathered  flakes  float  away  on  the 
ripples,  that  come  lessening  and  whispering  to  the  shore ; 
the  light  gulls  hang  in  flocks-  over  the  water,  they  dip  their 
bills,  and  carry  off  their  prey  in  triumph,  and  their  screaming 
rises  along  the  coast  like  the  confused  shouting  of  an  army ; 
the  tall  crane  stalks  with  measured  step  along  the  sand, 
and  utters  his  voice  like  the  deep  bray  of  a  trumpet;  the 
flamingo  stands,  like  a  form  of  fire,  on  the  wave-lashed  rock, 
and  the  light  glances  richly  over  his  scarlet  plumage ;  and  the 
white  tropic-bird  skims  over  the  high  green  billow  on  his  long 
black  wings,  or  hangs,  poised  like  a  flitting  cloud,  far  aloft  in 
the  horizon.  Then  he  sees  a  fleet  of  canoes  coming  around 
a  distant  promontory,  paddling  over  the  smooth  bay,  and 
tossing  the  water  around  them,  like  wild  fowl  in  their  gam 
bols;  the  broad  matted  sails  swell  out  in  the  cool  wind, 
that  comes  off  from  the  ocean,  and  is  flying  to  the  hills  and 
the  woods,  as  if  to  rest  in  their  dark  recesses,  they  throw 
their  long  shadows  before  them,  and  the  water  is  darkened 
around  the  prows,  like  a  lake  when  a  cloud  flies  over  it; 
they  come  moving  their  oars  to  the  sound  of  simple  flutes 
and  untaught  voices;  they  touch  the  land,  and  then  come 
forth  with  song  and  dancing,  and  march  away  to  the 
woods  in  graceful  order ;  their  glossy  mantles  flow  around 
their  shoulders,  their  arms  shine  with  rings  of  pearl,  their 
heads  are  crowned  with  blue  and  scarlet  feathers,  and  neck 
laces  of  the  brightest  and  sweetest  flowers  are  festooned 
around  them,  and  spicy  blossoms  of  snowy  whiteness  spangle 


105 

their  long  black  locks ;  they  walk  erect  in  the  dignity  of  na 
ture,  or  dance  to  the  sound  of  melodious  music,  and  their 
cheeks  of  olive  softness  glow  with  the  flush  of  health  and  mo 
tion,  like  the  clear  red,  that  shines  through  the  brown  rind  of 
the  pomegranate.  Then  he  follows  them  through  the  woods 
to  a  sacred  enclosure,  in  the  solitude  of  a  retired  valley,  where 
the  wooded  hills  are  rising  in  an  evergreen  circle,  and 
the  palm  waves  in  the  wind,  the  bamboo  nods  on  the  rock, 
and  the  wild  vines  creep  over  the  trees,  and  weave  their 
arches  of  broad  leaves  and  purple  blossoms,  where  the  cocoa 
with  its  wide  crown  and  columned  trunk,  and  the  bread- 
tree  with  its  fingered  leaves  and  clustered  cones  stand  in 
ordered  lines  around  them,  and  plantanes,  in  their  tufted 
bloom  and  fruitage,  and  reeds  and  canes,  with  their  pointed 
blades  and  silken  tassels,  fence  in  the  still  retreat,  and  close  it 
from  the  sight  and  entrance  of  profaner  mortals.  And  there 
they  move  in  circling  choirs  to  a  low  and  solemn  measure, 
and  their  song  is  like  the  moaning^  of  bereaved  matrons, 
blended  at  times  with  the  shriek  of  terror;  and  the  priests 
come  forth  from  their  dark  recess  in  a  dress  of  fantastic  wild- 
ness,  they  mutter  over  their  fearful  incantations,  the  music 
ceases,  and  the  dancers  are  still  and  breathless;  then  a  wo^ 
man  of  a  hostile  nation  is  brought  forward,  she  clasps  an 
infant  to  her  breast  with  the  gripe  of  desperate  fondness,  they 
tear  away  the  frighted  babe  from  her  clinging  arms,  and  with 
a  look  of  wild  entreaty  she  sees  it  borne  to  a  pile  of  fuel,  and 
its  little  limbs  bound  in  sacrifice,  then  her  sight  grows  dark, 
and  she  falls  with  a  faint  shriek  in  a  dead  insensibility ;  and 
they  consecrate  the  innocent  to  the  demon  of  slaughter,  to  wait 
till  the  battle  turn  against  them,  and  then  to  be  slain  and 
burned  to  the  rattling  of  drums  and  the  shouts  of  infuriate 
dancers.  Then  the  warriors  throw  away  their  flowing  robes, 
and  rush  forth  in  naked  wildness,  brandishing  their  clubs, 
and  clashing  their  spears,  and  their  shouts  and  their  yells  ring 
through  the  forest,  like  the  out-breaking  of  a  host  of  demons  : 
their  limbs  writhe  in  the  violence  of  their  contortions,  their 


106 

eyes  flash,  and  their  features  look  unutterable  fury ;  they  hurl 
at  once  their  arms  toward  the  land  of  their  foemen,  and  de 
nounce  against  them  insatiate  vengeance;  then  they  spring 
forward  to  the  shore,  and  their  war  canoes  move  swiftly  over 
the  waves,  in  ordered  file  and  measured  motion,  and  the  oars 
chime  to  the  song  of  battle ;  and  midway  on  the  sea  the  fleet 
of  the  enemy  is  advancing  against  them,  and  the  waves  foam 
before  their  hurried  prows,  and  seem  alive  with  their  swarming 
numbers ;  then  the  fleets  approach,  a  yell  is  heard,  and  the 
boats  are  mingled ;  and  there  is  a  rattling  of  arms,  and  a  con 
fused  cry  of  wrath  and  agony ;  and  in  the  heat  of  the  battle, 
a  tall  sail,  and  a  white  flag  is  seen  moving  to  part  them,  it 
comes  forward  in  the  press  of  its  canvass,  and  leaps  over 
the  waves  with  the  pride  and  swiftness  of  a  racehorse,  it 
draws  nigh,  and  passes  between  the  contending  furies,  the 
canoes  part,  and  shrink  back  in  terror,  the  tumult  is 
hushed,  and  a  death-like  calm  broods  over  the  waters ;  then 
the  ship  comes  to  land,  its  sails  are  furled,  its  anchors  moored, 
and  the  boat  drops  from  its  tackling,  and  heralds  of  peace,  in 
white  robes,  with  hymning  voices,  descend  and  glide  slowly  to 
the  shore ;  then  they  move  in  majesty  to  the  sound  of  sacred 
music,  and  the  savage  shrinks  from  before  them,  his  voice 
is  mute,  his  eye  sunk,  and  his  rage  conquered;  arid  they  go 
to  the  Morai,  and  stop  the  rites  of  cruelty ;  the  mother's 
heart  gladdens,  as  they  give  back  her  infant,  and  the  little  in 
nocent  clings  to  her  bosom,  and  twines  its  fingers  in  her  scat 
tered  locks;  and  they  proclaim  aloud,  that  war  shall  have  an 
end,  they  cast  down  the  bloody  spear  of  battle,  and  raise  alofr 
the  white  flag  of  redemption,  and  its  wide  folds  play  in  the 
sweet  winds,  and  glance  in  the  snnbeams,  like  a  banner  of 
light  in  the  land  of  the  blessed. 

Then  he  sees  the  sun  rising  over  the  mistress  of  nations, 
where  she  sits  on  her  hills,  in  her  mural  crown,  like  the  Bere- 
cynthian  goddess  on  the  summit  of  Ida ;  and  he  stands  be 
neath  the  Doric  dome  of  her  protecting  deity,  and  a  pale  and 
solemn  light  streams  through  the  alabaster  windows,  and 


107 

gives  a  faint  hue  to  the  fluted  pillars,  but  leaves  the  niches  in 
darkness,  and  as  it  glances  along  the  walls,  tinges  with  a  yel 
low  ray  the  trophies  of  war,  and  the  votive  offerings  of  heroes, 
the  Punic  beaks,  the  Grecian  palms,  and  the  Gallic  helmets  j 
and  half  reveals,  in  the  dim  recess,  the  statue  of  her  owja  pecu 
liar  Jove,  whose  right  hand  grasps  the  thunder,  and  whose  left 
sustains  a  column,  on  which  is  inscribed,  in  brazen  letters, 
"  ROMA."  And  there  he  sees,  arranged  in  silent  order,  the 
fathers  of  the  republic,  sitting  on  their  curule  chairs  and 
benches,  with  staid  and  graceful  dignity,  in  their  long  white 
robes  and  purple  badges ;  and  at  their  head,  on  a  higher  seat, 
the  keen  and  sleepless  consul,  with  his  eye  full  of  deep  thought, 
and  his  thin  and  spiritual  features  alive  with  the  workings  of 
his  mighty  bosom;  then  a  death-like  stillness  pervades  the 
high  assembly,  and  there  enters  a  tall  bony  man,  with  a  fierce 
and  haggard  look,  and  a  hurried  motion,  and  as  he  advances 
to  take  his  seat,  the  senators  retire  before  him,  and  shrink  to 
the  other  side  of  the  temple,  as  from  the  breath  of  a  poisonous 
reptile ;  and  at  once  the  orator  and  the  magistrate,  reading 
him  with  the  keen  glance  of  indignation,  rises  from  his  curule 
chair,  lifts  his  hand  with  commanding  gesture,  spreads  the 
folds  of  his  flowing  toga,  and  bursts  out  in  a  voice  of  kindled 
wrath  and  insulted  dignity ;  and  as  he  pours  forth  his  ho 
nest  rage  in  unsparing  and  ceaseless  invective,  and  launches 
around  him  the  arrows  of  impassioned  eloquence,  the  cor 
rupted  and  corrupting  worm  writhes  beneath  his  torture,  and 
looks  around  for  escape,  but  dares  not  fly  from  the  fascina 
tion  of  that  stern  glance,  which  probes  the  deepest  folds  of  his 
bosom :  then  as  the  orator  draws  out,  one  by  one,  his  foul  pur 
poses,  and  bares  them  to  the  light  in  their  fullest  blackness, 
and  turns  to  the  solemn  statue  in  the  act  of  invoicing  ven 
geance,  he  cowers  to  the  earth  like  a  wretch,  when  a  storm 
has  passed  over  him. 

Such  are  his  solitary  musings,  and  so  he  could  dream  on 
for  ever,  taking  in  with  delighted  sense  the  sights  and  sounds, 
that  are  moving  and  speaking  around  him,  and  linking  them 


108 

with  all  the  stores  of  his  memory,  and  all  the  creations  of  his 
fancy.  But  the  sun  is  going  down  behind  the  mountains,  and 
withdrawing  the  light,  that  warmed  and  inspired  him,  and  he 
turns  a  lingering  eye,  as  the  bright  orb  dips  behind  the  far 
peak,  and  the  yellow  light  streams  up  its  last  flash,  and  gives 
its  last  gilding  to  the  rocks  and  forests ;  and  he  looks  long 
and  fondly  on  the  amber  circle,  that  crowns  the  place  of  set 
ting,  and  the  gay  clouds,  that  burn  in  the  clear  flame  of  even 
ing  ;  then  he  sees  a  deep  red  stain  hang  around  the  west 
ern  ridges,  and  it  fades  into  a  cold  violet,  and  grows  fainter 
and  fainter,  till  the  general  blue  closes  over  the  darkened 
summits ;  then  the  stars  come  out  on  their  night-watch,  and 
the  sky  looks  black  and  comfortless  around  them ;  the  north 
wind  begins  to  whistle  among  the  pines  and  stinted  cedars, 
and  his  blood  grows  chill,  his  heart  sinks,  and  the  bright 
visions  of  his  soul  are  darkened ;  then  he  hears  the  increas 
ing  call  of  hunger,  his  spirit  becomes  lifeless  and  barren,  and 
opens  to  all  the  cold  realities  of  life,  and  he  would  fain  de 
scend  to  the  homeliest  cot,  and  the  rudest  shelter,  and  sit 
down  by  the  fire  of  the  coarsest  woodman,  to  receive  his  cynic 
welcome,  and  partake  of  his  hard  fare,  and  his  boisterous 
hospitality ;  and  then  he  sees,  that,  the  finest  and  the  richest 
minds  must  at  once  bid  adieu  to  life  and  all  its  pleasures,  or 
be  content  to  share  in  its  toils,  and  buffet  its  billows. 


44 


-II  \F 


?  Z.A  V 


A  L 


Bcspattlj 


CLIO. 


BY 


JAMES  G.  PERCIVA1, 


No.  II. 


u  ne  sail  se  borntr,  ne  sut  jamais  ecrire. — BOILEAU. 


NEW-HAVEN  : 

PRINTED    AND    PUBLISHED    BY    S.    CONVERSE. 

1822. 


DISTRICT  OF  CONNECTICUT,  ss. 
BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  the  fifth  day 
of  J  uly,  in  the  forty-seventh  year  of  the  Indepen- 
I  dence  of  the  United  States  of  America,  James  G. 
Perciva!)  of  the  said  District,  hath  deposited  in  this 
office  the  title  of  a   Book,  the   right  whereof  he 
claims  as  Author,  in  the  words  following,  to  wit  : 

"  CLIO.    By  JAMBS  G.  PERCIVAL.    No.  II. 
Qwi  ne  sail  se  borner,  ne  sut  jamais  ccrire. — Boileau." 
in  conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States, 
entitled,  "  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  secure- 
ing  the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and 
proprietors  of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned." 
CHA'S.  A.  INGERSOLL, 

Clerk  of  the  District  of  Connecticut. 
4  true  copy  of  Record,  examined  and  sealed  by  me, 
CHA'S.  A.  INGERSOLL, 

Clerk  of  the  District  of  Connecticut, 


PREFACE. 


WHEN  I  gave  the  first  number  of  CLIO  to  the 
public,  I  did  not  pledge  myself  to  issue  a  second  ; 
but  I  have  allowed  a  sufficient  quantity  of  passing 
effusions  to  accumulate  upon  me,  to  induce  me  to 
publish  this  second  and  positively  last  number.  I 
do  not  feel  myself  called  upon  to  detail  my  reasons 
for  abandoning  this  undertaking.  It  is  not  worth 
while  to  answer  before  questioned.  Others  may 
not  feel  such  an  interest  in  the  continuance  of  this 
work  as  to  demand  the  causes  of  its  termination  ; 
and  I  really  do  not  wish  to  draw  out  my  own  pri 
vate  feelings  from  the  retirement  of  my  bosom. 
Henceforth  no  collection  of  fugitive  pieces  shall  ap 
pear  under  my  name.  If  it  is  again  obtruded  on 
the  public,  it  shall  be  in  a  work  of  a  regular,  extend 
ed  and  matured  plan. 

In  the  former  preface  I  offered  a  few  observa 
tions  on  the  nature  and  uses  of  Poetry.  I  shall  now 
continue  them,  not  as  specimens  of  critical  disqui 
sition,  but  as  simple  expressions  of  my  own  views 
and  feelings.  There  has  lately  been  an  interesting 


controversy  on  this  subject ;  and  even  now  the  lov 
ers  of  poetry,  and  pretenders  to  taste,  are  arranged 
under  different  standards.  Some  dwell  on  the  rich 
fancy,  the  deep  feeling,  the  strong  passion,  and  the 
vivid  imagery  of  the  early  school  of  the  days  of 
Elizabeth.  They  readily  pardon  their  negligence 
and  occasional  coarseness,  their  contempt  of  all  the 
rules  of  rhetoric,  and  the  improbabilities  of  their 
fictions,  for  the  deep  and  rich  vein,  that  shines 
through  them.  Others  take  Pope  and  Campbell 
for  their  standards.  The  smoothness  of  their  vers 
ification,  the  perfect  correctness  and  propriety  of 
their  language,  the  fastidiousness  of  their  taste,  and 
their  regular  chime  of  thought  and  measure,  consti 
tute,  with  this  class  of  amateurs,  the  ne  plus  ultra  of 
poetic  excellence. 

Of  these  two  classes,  I  confess  myself  most  at 
tached  to  the  former.  1  look  upon  Poetry  as  an 
art,  whose  charm  lies  in  the  exhibition  of  vivid  im 
agery,  new,  varied,  beautiful  and  sublime  ;  and  in 
appeals  to  the  simple  affections  of  the  heart.  The 
Poet,  if  we  follow  the  etymology  of  the  word,  is  a 
creator;  one,  who  fashions  from  the  stores  of  his 
memory,  images,  of  which  earth  furnishes  no  reali 
ty  ;  and  who  combines  them  into  groupes,  which 
have  an  existence  only  in  the  imaginary  world,  he 
has  charmed  into  being.  He  gives  to  his  concep 
tions  a  visible  form  of  beauty  or  of  power,  and  ani- 


mates  them  with  a  fire  from  heaven,  beaming  forth 
in  their  eyes  and  features,  like  the  sweet  flow  of 
light  from  a  lamp  in  a  vase  of  alabaster;  or  flashing 
abroad,  in  the  kindlings  of  emotion,  like  the  fount, 
from  which  it  was  stolen.  He  takes  you  to  the  re 
tirement  of  sensibility,  and  recals  to  you  all  its  nice 
and  tender  touches  of  character,  and  plays  upon 
the  springs,  which  call  forth  those  feelings  of  hap 
py  sorrow,  which  move  us  in  our  sympathies  with 
others,  which  are  always  delightful,  because  they 
seem  to  us  holy,  and  are  always  welcomed,  as  the 
surest  evidence,  that  nature  is  concealed  within  us. 
Every  tear,  that  is  shed  then,  is  to  us  a  treasure  ; 
for  it  flows  from  a  fountain,  in  which,  we  imagine, 
angels  might  wash,  and  be  purer.  Even  when  he 
becomes  the  hierophant  of  nature,  and  leads  us  to 
contemplate  the  great  principles  of  our  being  ; 
when  he  is  simply  didactic,  and  his  great  object  is 
the  display  of  philosophic  truth,  he  does  not  depart 
from  his  peculiar  character.  Every  principle  be 
comes  with  him  a  personification,  and  the  great  doc 
trines  of  science,  pass  before  him,  as  so  many  beings 
endowed  with  life  and  majesty  and  beauty. 

Nature  is  the  charm  of  poetry,  and  not  art.  We 
ask  for  something  in  it  which  can  stir  and  elevate, 
or  melt  and  soothe  us.  The  feeling  of  delight,  when 
we  meet  with  one  of  those  effusions,  which  genius 
scr»t  forth,  when  the  living  spirit  overshadowed  it, 
1* 


when  fancy  put  on  its  best  attire,  and  the  heart 
was  tuned  to  its  sweetest  harmony ;  this  feeling, 
which  defies  the  power  of  language  to  describe  it ; 
which  is  indeed  a  holy  and  inspired  d-elirium,  is  the 
only  test  of  true  excellence  in  poetry.  And  it  is 
this,  which  invests  poetry  with  its  sacred  character; 
for  it  is  the  feeling  of  infancy  and  childhood ;  of 
those  years,  on  which  we  look  as  a  dear  delightful 
dream,  whose  sunny  spots  we  select  as  the  very 
paradise  of  our  being,  which  become  the  favourite 
contemplation  of  the  mind  that  has  seen  all  its  ear 
ly  illusions  vanish,  and  finds  nothing  but  bare  reali 
ty  around  it,  and  which  it  is  ever  sending  forward 
to  form  the  fairest  and  loveliest  adornments  of  the 
unchanging  abode,  to  which  it  is  advancing. 

Jt  is  well  to  combine  the  perfections  of  art  with 
the  enchantments  of  nature  ;  but  I  still  think  poetic 
beauty  is  loveliest,  when  least  adorned.  You  may 
study  all  the  laws  of  versification,  and  all  the  rules 
of  metaphor;  you  may  write  in  lines  of  surpassing 
melody,  and  figures  so  exact,  that  the  nicest  micros 
cope  of  criticism  could  not  find  in  them  a  flaw;  yet 
without  "  the  thoughts,  that  breathe,  and  the  words 
that  burn,"  they  are  like  those  pieces  of  music, 
which  flow  through  the  ear,  and  leave  no  impres 
sion  behind  them  ;  which  are  remembered  only  for 
a  moment,  as  sounds  that  were  soft  and  pleasant, 
but  touched  no  chord  in  the  bosom  ;  while  the  po- 


etry  of  nature,  be  it  but  a  single  conception,  find* 
at  once  its  home  in  the  heart,  is  cherished  there 
with  a  passionate  devotion,  and  needs  only  the 
faintest  tone  of  its  music,  to  awaken  it  in  all  the 
charms  of  its  earliest  loveliness.  I  do  not  mean  to 
say  any  thing  against  Pope  and  Campbell.  But 
surely  the  sweetness  of  their  versification,  and  the 
nice  polish  of  their  language,  cannot  be  consider 
ed  as  giving  them  the  high  rank,  they  hold  in  Eng 
lish  poetry.  They  have  taken  their  proud  station 
there,  because  they  held  a  pen  which  could  give 
life  and  vividness  to  their  images,  and  call  up  at 
once  their  creations  in  all  the  distinctness  of  reali 
ty.  Therefore  it  is,  that  the  dress,  they  have  so 
carefully  wrought,  is  so  attractive  ;  for  it  is  the  in 
vestment  of  an  unaffected  and  living  beauty.  When 
ever  they  depart  from  this,  and  Pope  repeatedly 
does,  all  their  melody  and  correctness  do  not  con 
ceal  the  deformity  of  thought,  that  lurks  behind 
them.  Miserable  indeed  must  be  the  mind,  that 
would  weigh  syllables  against  sentiment,  and  de 
cide  the  fate  of  a  truly  pathetic  effusion,  because 
there  was  a  want  of  exact  harmony  in  its  lines. 
The  great  desideratum  of  poetry,  is  the  inspira 
tion,  the  mms  divinior,  which  leads  you  away  from 
the  book,  you  are  reading,  and  carries  you  to  some 
actual  scene  of  sublimity  or  beauty;  which  sets  be 
fore  you  in  colours,  that  cannot  be  doubted,  the 


dance  or  the  battle  ;  the  valley  winding  away  in  the 
loveliness  of  its  flowers  and  verdure,  between  banks 
of  elms  and  maples;  the  lake  reposing  in  the  still 
ness  of  evening,  and  sheeted  with  the  gilding  of 
sunset;  the  volcano  rising  from  among  cities  and 
vineyards,  crowned  with  "  its  cloud  by  day  and  its 
pillar  of  fire  by  night;"  or  the  mountain,  invested 
with  the  purity  of  eternal  snow,  and  ascending  with 
the  majesty  of  a  monarch,  till  it  gains  a  height 
where  it  no  longer  seems  a  portion  of  earth,  but  a 
cloud  of  glory  suspended  in  the  heavens.  The 
works  of  a  poet,  who  adds  correctness  to  richness 
of  fancy  and  tenderness  of  feeling,  and  who  kindles 
up  all  with  a  glow  of  enthusiasm,  are  like  an  ele 
gant  figure  of  polished  spar,  bright  with  the  irradi 
ations  of  a  fire  within  it.  But  if  there  be  nothing 
but  a  faultless  style  and  a  smooth  flow  of  sounds, 
we  may  read  on,  page  after  page,  without  a  single 
emotion,  lulled  as  effectually  as  we  should  be  by  the 
quiet  lapse  of  whispering  waters. 

But  while  I  stand  forth  as  the  advocate  of  bold 
and  spirited  poetry,  and  profess  myself  willing  to  set 
off  against  occasional  negligences,  those  redeeming 
flashes  of  pure  and  glowing  thought,  whose  excel 
lence  cannot  be  questioned  ;  I  would  myself  aim  to 
avoid  those  extremes  which  have  always  led  minds 
of  more  correctness  than  fire,  to  settle  down  in  the 
<;old  medium.  We  should  neither  adopt  the  licen- 


tious  richness  of  oriental  imagery,  nor  those  gener 
al  expressions,  which  represent  no  individuality. 
Every  object  should  be  described  by  a  few  of  its 
strongest  characters,  but  there  should  be  a  specific 
difference.  We  should  not  simply  sketch  the  visi 
ble  forms  of  objects,  but  we  should  animate  them  ; 
for  all  things  are  living  to  the  poetic  eye.  We 
should  make  every  object  the  residence  of  a  spirit, 
that  can  commune  with  us  in  our  thoughts  and  feel 
ings,  and  we  should  link  it  to  the  chain  of  our  as 
sociations  ;  but  at  the  same  time,  we  should  not  al 
low  this  to  be  an  excuse  for  a  conceit,  nor  suffer  it 
to  degenerate  into  sickly  sentimentalism.  The  Ori 
entals  have  overloaded  their  pieces  with  a  profusion 
of  ornament,  and  an  accumulation  of  minute  details; 
while  the  Greeks  sketched  their  pictures  with  a  few 
bold  strokes.  The  ancients  presented  the  grand 
and  simple  outlines  of  nature,  adorned  indeed  with 
their  beautiful  mythology  ;  but  they  rarely  connect 
ed  external  nature  with  their  own  emotions  :  while, 
at  this  time,  every  object  calls  up  a  sentiment,  and 
the  beings  around  us  become  only  the  cues  of  a  re 
flection  or  a  moral.  There  is,  however,  little  dan 
ger  of  error,  when  the  mind  is  deeply  engaged,  and 
alive  to  the  importance  of  its  subject;  and  after  all, 
the  best  way  to  succeed  is  to  think,  not  how,  but 
what  we  would  say. 


10 

In  all  nations,  in  the  infancy  of  literature,  poetry 
is  rude  in  structure,  but  full  in  inspiration.  Men 
have  then  much  of  the  feeling  of  childhood.  Every 
thing  leaves  a  vivid  impression,  and  kindles  the 
mind,  of  more  than  common  susceptibility,  to  an 
ecstacy  of  emotion.  Objects  strike  so  deeply  as  to 
rivet  the  attention  solely  upon  them,  and  hence 
every  image  stands  by  itself  distinct  and  individual. 
There  is  a  quick  perception  of  the  stronger  outlines, 
but  there  is  no  microscopic  searching  after  conceal 
ed  beauties.  They  see  with  an  unprejudiced  eye, 
and  therefore  they  see  and  feel  many  things,  that 
escape  our  systematic  investigation  ;  and  what  they 
see,  is  appropriated.  But,  vivid  as  their  concep 
tions  are,  like  all  in  the  infancy  of  mind,  they  are 
wanting  in  powers  of  language.  They  are  only 
beginners  in  the  art  of  selecting  and  combining 
words.  Hence  a  taste,  that  has  long  been  trained 
to  delicacy  and  exactness,  will  find  much  in  them  to 
shock  it ;  unwieldy  expressions  and  rude  epithets, 
discordant  rhymes  and  broken  measures;  but  the 
feeling  and  natural  heart  will  find  its  attention  riv 
eted,  its  passions  kindled,  and  its  tears  elicited,  in 
spite  of  itself.  These  are  the  tributes  of  nature 
unfettered  by  art.  They  are  the  weapons  by  which 
taste,  with  all  its  refinement,  is  forced  to  confess 
the  omnipotence  of  untaught  feeling.  In  the  early 
age  of  poetry,  it  is  the  quick  burst  of  emotion,  that 


11 

cannot  be  restrained  ;  the  gushings  of  a  heart,  full 
to  overflowing.  Be  it  gaiety  or  sorrow,  delight  or 
indignation,  the  tongue  is  eloquent,  and  the  eye 
beaming  with  expression.  Smiles  are  then  unforced, 
and  bright  as  the  sun  on  curling  waters.  Tears  are 
then  pure,  and  flowing  from  the  deepest  fountain 
of  the  heart.  They  look  then  on  all  that  is  pleas 
ant,  with  the  delighted  gaze  of  boyhood,  when  his 
eye  first  catches  a  new  and  brilliant  spectacle. 
They  mingle  with  the  loveliness  of  nature,  and  be 
come  a  portion  of  its  hills,  its  woods,  and  its  waters. 
They  kindle,  at  the  sight  of  baseness  or  cruelty, 
with  the  sparkling  energy  of  a  lion.  They  are 
ready  to  stand  in  the  front  ranks  of  danger,  and  to 
show  forth,  in  fearless  action,  the  spirit  that  is  burn 
ing  within  them.  Love,  the  great  inspirer  of  all 
that  is  noble, — the  chief  excitant  to  our  highest 
and  brightest  efforts,  is  then  passion,  not  art.  Its 
language  is  that  universal  dialect  of  looks  and  ac 
tions,  which  is  the  same  every  where  ;  not  the  art 
ful  leer,  the  counterfeited  sigh,  and  the  false  tone 
of  languishment.  When  the  emotions  are  thus  liv 
ing,  the  incoherent  language  in  which  they  are  im- 
bodied,  has  its  charms.  It  can  at  least  interest  us, 
and  is  worth  whole  volumes  of  faultless  insipidity. 
But  there  is  an  interval  between  the  first  dawnings, 
and  the  full  brightness  of  a  national  literature,  when 
the  freshness  of  early  feeling  still  continues,  but 


12 

when  art  has  begun  its  refinements.  These  tirst 
efforts  of  art  are  characterised  too  often  by  a  child 
ish  playfulness,  and  all  the  tricks  of  figure  and  ver 
sification.  Conceits,  brilliant  indeed,  but  far-sought; 
puns  and  quibbles,  delightful  to  minds  that  meet 
only  to  laugh  and  be  merry  ;  alliterations,  acrostics, 
double  and  entangled  rhymes,  and  every  variety  of 
jingling  melody  are  then  cultivated  and  admired. 
These  are  loved  and  sought  for  a  time,  and  then 
taste  assumes  her  empire.  Every  thing  must  then 
submit  to  the  rigid  laws  of  criticism.  The  long  and 
patient  application  of  the  labor  limce  is  then  the  first 
precept  inculcated  on  the  youthful  poet,  and  the 
laurel  is  conferred,  not  on  him  whose  soaring  is 
loftiest,  but  on  him  who  is  most  unwearied  in  his 
corrections.  This  is  necessary  to  prune  away  ju 
venile  luxuriances,  and  to  give  smoothness,  com 
pactness,  and  propriety  to  language.  But  when  art 
has  furnished  its  perfectest  models,  and  poetic  dic 
tion  has  been  carried  to  its  acme  of  improvement, 
then  poets  should  return  to  nature,  if  they  would 
aim  to  command  the  public  mind.  The  refinements 
of  poetry  can  be  truly  relished  only  by  the  cultiva 
ted  ;  the  happy  expression  of  natural  feeling  finds  a 
responding  voice  in  all  whose  hearts  have  not  been 
polluted  by  depravity.  To  the  refined,  natural  ten 
derness  and  beauty  can  be  no  objection,  but  surely 
a  high  improvement.  With  those  who  judge  only 


13 

from  their  own  emotions,  polished  language  and 
versification,  if  not  fully  appreciated,  will  always 
be  preferred  to  doggrel.  The  highest  interest  of  a 
poet  who  aims  at  distinction,  is  then  to  write  only, 
when  he  feels  inspired,  when  his  subject  has  gained 
full  possession  of  him,  and  has  wrought  him  up  to  that 
state  of  excitement,  where  the  visions  of  his  fancy 
stand  before  him  in  living  beauty.  Then,  if  he  be 
sufficiently  prepared  in  the  art,  his  language  will 
flow  abroad  without  effort,  and  the  light  of  his  soul 
will  pervade  every  line  and  syllable.  Such  a  poet, 
if  he  is  endowed  with  the  true  spirit  of  genius,  can 
hardly  err.  But  it  is  time  to  close  this  preface,  and 
pass  from  precept  to  example. 


CLIO. 


SONNET. 

WOULD  I  were  but  a  spirit,  veil'd  in  light, 

Wafted,  by  winds  of  heaven,  from  flower  to  flower, 
Catching,  from  bending  blades,  the  crystal  shower, 

When  earth,  impearl'd,  awaken'd  new  and  bright ; 

Would  I  were  set  to  guide  some  rolling  sphere, 
Amid  the  glories  of  eternal  day, 
Hymning  aloud  a  sweet  celestial  lay, 

That  immortality  alone  can  hear; 

Would  I  were  but  the  messenger  of  love, 
To  bear,  from  soul  to  kindred  soul,  the  sigh, 
To  kiss  the  tears  that  fall  from  beauty's  eye, 

And  watch  the  ring-dove  in  the  lonely  grove; 

Then  sounds  of  melody  might  ever  flow 

From  lips,  that  with  the  fire  of  feeling  glow. 


OH  Evening  !  thou  art  lovely — in  thy  dress 
Of  sober  grey  I  woo  thee,  when  thy  star 
Comes  o'er  the  hazy  hills,  that  rise  afar, 
When  tender  thoughts  upon  my  spirit  pres5 


16 

And  with  the  whispering  gales  and  fanning  airs 

The  quiet  swelling  of  my  bosom  pairs; 

And  by  the  lake  that  lieth  motionless, 

Low  in  the  secret  hollow,  where  the  shade, 

By  bending  elms  and  drooping  willows  made, 

Displays  its  peaceful  canopy,  arid  gives 

A  moving  picture  to  the  lymph  below, 

Where  float  the  sapphire  sky,  the  clouds  of  snow, 

The  evening  streaks,  and  every  swarrn,  that  lives 

And  murmurs  in  the  dun  air,  and  the  leaves, 

That  quiver  in  the  breath  of  night,  and  shine 

With  slowly  gathered  drops,  and  boughs  that  play, 

Rising  and  falling  gently,  he,  who  grieves 

For  some  deep-wounding  sorrow,  as  is  mine* 

In  such  a  lonely  shade  his  head  may  lay, 

And  on  the  scented  grass  and  flowers  recline, 

And  gaze  upon  the  lingering  light  of  day. 


STAR  of  the  pensive!  "melancholy  Star," 
That,  from  the  bosom  of  the  deep  ascending, 
Shines  on  the  curling  waves,  like  mourner  bending 
Over  the  ruins  of  the  joys  that  were; 
Or  lone  deserted  mother  sweetly  tending 
Her  hush'd  babe  in  its  cradle,  often  blending 
Her  plaintive  song  and  sigh  repress'd — sweet  star 
1  love  the  eye,  that  looks  on  me  so  far 
From  all  this  want,  and  wretchedness,  and  woe, 


17 

From  out  that  home  of  pure  serenity 

Above  the  winds  and  clouds — When  tempests  blow. 

The  sailor  through  the  darkness  looks  to  thee — 

Thou  art  the  star  of  love,  and  fond  hearts  gaze 

With  feeling  awe  upon  thy  trembling  rays, 

And  dream  that  other  eyes  are  resting  there; 

And  O  !  what  light  around  the  bosom  plays, 

When  dwelling  on  the  beautiful  and  fair, 

We  think  that  eyes  belov'd  those  beauties  share. 


EMPRESS  of  Night !  I  saw  thee  through  the  rack, 

That^eec'd*  the  face  of  heaven,  careering  by, 

And  launch  again  upon  a  cloudless  sky, 

A  beam  of  glory  setting  in  thy  track  ; 

Like  vessel  in  her  course  along  the  sea, 

Now  voyaging  through  islands,  now  away 

On  the  wide  ocean,  in  her  liberty 

Rejoicing;  or  like  falcon  on  her  wing 

Skirting  the  mountain  shadows,  as  they  fling 

Gloom  o'er  the  world  beneath  them,  now  at  play. 

On  broad  exulting  pinions,  in  the  clear 

Blue  noon-vault,  where  nor  speck  nor  mist  appear, 

And  bathing  in  the  deepest  flood  of  day — 

So  seem'd  thy  round  full  orb  to  hold  its  flight, 

*  I  have  used  this  word  in  a  new  sense,  but  easily  understood, 
I  presume. 


18 

Ascending  proudly  to  its  highest  throne, 

Mellowing  the  dun  obscurity  of  night, 

And  walking  in  its  majesty  alone; 

Now  through  its  waving  veil  of  white  clouds  beaming 

With  softer  light,  now  pouring  on  their  snow. 

Floating  like  heaps  of  foam,  an  iris  glow; 

Now  from  a  narrow  rift  in  glory  streaming 

With  column'd  rays,  as  when  through  arches  shine 

Thy  beams  on  some  loop'd  wall  or  broken  shrine, 

That  prouder  swell  in  thy  uncertain  gleaming; 

And  now  undimm'd,  unshrouded,  on  the  high 

O'erbending  vault  of  sapphire,  as  an  eye 

Soothing  the  brow  of  heav'n,  it  pours  abroad 

Brightness  o'er  vale  and  mountain,  gilds  the  rock, 

Silvers  the  winding  river,  tips  the  wave 

With  flowing  amber,  where  its  foam-wreaths  lave 

The  ocean's  bulwark,  seeming  to  unlock 

The  pure  and  calm  benignity  of  GOD. 


"0!  there  is  bliss  in  tears" — in  tears,  that  flow 
From  out  a  heart,  where  tender  feelings  dwell. 
That  heaveths  with  involuntary  swell 
Of  joy  or  griff,  for  others'  weal  or  woe — 
The  highest  pleasures  fortune  can  bestow. 
The  proudest  deeds,  that  victory  can  tell, 
The  charm?  that  beauty  weaveth  in  her  spell. 
These  holy,  happy  tears  how  far  below  : 


19 

Yes,  I  would  steal  me  from  life's  gaudy  show, 

And  seek  a  covert  in  a  silent  shade, 

And  where  the  cheating  lights  of  being  glow, 

See  glory  after  glory  dimly  fade, 

And  knowing  all  my  brighter  visions  o'er, 

Deep  in  my  bosom's  core  my  sorrows  lay, 

And  thence  the  fountains  of  repentance  pour, 

Gush  after  gush,  in  purer  streams  away. 


STAR  of  the  dewy  morning — from  thy  sphere 
Of  light  and  purity,  before  the  hue 
Of  dawn  has  ting'd  thy  lofty  throne  of  blue, 
Before  the  purple,  gold  and  crimson  stain 
The  soft  transparence  of  that  heavenly  plain, 
Before  the  warbling  birds  salute  the  ear, 
While  yet  the  hills  are  dark,  before  the  glow 
Irradiates  yon  aerial  peak  of  snow, 
And  paints  the  floating  clouds,  and  dies  their  veil, 
That  with  the  wind  swells,  like  the  ruby  sail 
Of  Nautilus,  who  skims  along  the  deep, 
Ere  yet  the  mustering  winds  the  mirror  sweep- 
Star  of  the  dewy  morning — by  thy  ray 
I  love  to  brush  the  pearls,  that  gem  the  lawn, 
The  while  I  hasten,  ere  the  bars  are  drawn, 
That  close  the  portals  of  approaching  day, 
From  yonder  hill  to  view  the  smiling  dawn 
Shine  on  the  living  landscape's  proud  array  ; 


20 

And  while  those  flashes  from  the  orient  play, 
Thou  sparkiest  now  intensely,  now  thy  beam 
Scatters  a  feebler  radiance  on  the  stream, 
And  as  the  Sun's  bright  herald  gaily  flushes, 
And  from  the  deep  stain'd  windows  of  the  morn 
The  rosy  nymph  cf  light  and  darkness  born 
In  all  the  glow  of  youth  and  beauty  blushes, 
Thy  faint  and  fainter  twinkling  dies  away: 
So,  when  through  life's  chill  night  we  journey  on 
Following  the  star-like  beacon  in  the  skies, 
Till  as  the  long  and  weary  way  is  done, 
At  once  the  doors  of  heaven  before  us  rise, 
A  wave  of  glory  from  the  Eternal  Sun, 
The  beaming  welcome  of  the  Holy  One, 
Mingles  with  Love's  angelic  harmonies. 


Bow  of  the  fabled  Huntress — who  on  high, 
Thron'd  in  the  bright  meridian,  bend'stthy  arch 
Toward  Day's  beaming  chariot  on  its  march 
Of  triumph  o'er  this  pure  autumnal  sky, 
AVhich,  mantled  in  a  soft  cerulean  dye, 
Encircles  Nature  with  its  crystal  dome, 
And,  like  the  matchless  pantheon  of  Rome, 
Shows  in  its  perfect  sphere  one  only  eye — 
I  mark  thy  silver  crescent  purely  white 
Inlaying  yon  sublimest  azure,  where 
Clear  and  transparent  as  the  viewless  air, 


21 

And  like  the  empyrean  pavement  bright  and  fair, 
Expands  the  softest  tinctur'd  arch  of  light-— 
Faintly  amid  this  canopy  of  blue 
Thy  maiden  brightness  sweetly  trembles  through 
The  golden  glories  of  the  Orb  of  day — 
But  soon  thy  sparkling  circlet  in  the  west, 
Then  following,  as  thou  now  lead'st  on  the  way, 
Shall  glitter  on  the  ocean's  glassy  breast, 
And  on  the  mountain's  mellow  summit  play, 
And  with  the  star  of  beauty  by  thy  side 
Behind  yon  waving  ridge  of  cedars  glide 
Serenely  to  the  palace  of  thy  rest. 


THE  laurel  throws  its  locks  around  thy  grave 
As  freshly,  as  when  erst  thou  linger'd  there, 
And  pluck'd  the  early  flowers  to  crown  thy  hair, 
Or  gathered  cresses  from  the  glass}'  wave, 
That  winds  through  hills  of  olive,  vine,  andgrainT 
Stealing  away  from  Vaucluse'  lonely  dell, 
Now  murmuring  scantily,  now  in  the  swell 
Of  April  foaming  onward  to  the  plain — 
Laura  !  thy  consecrated  bough  is  bright, 
As  when  thy  Petrarch  tun'd  his  soft  lute  by, 
And  lit  his  torch  in  that  dissolving  light, 
Which  darted  from  his  only  Sun — thine  eye  ; 
Thy  leaf  is  still  as  green,  thy  flower  as  gay, 
Thy  berry  of  ;is  deep  a  tint,  as  when 


22 

Thou  mov'd  a  Goddess  in  the  walks  of  Men, 

And  o'er  thy  poet  held  unbounded  sway — 

Methinks  I  hear,  as  from  the  hills  descend 

The  deep'ning  shadows  and  the  blue  smoke  curls, 

And  waving  forests  with  the  light  winds  bend, 

And  flows  the  brook  in  softer  leaps  and  whirls — 

Methinks  I  hear  that  Voice  of  love  complaining, 

In  faint  and  broken  accents,  of  his  hours 

Of  lonely  sorrow,  and  of  thy  disdaining 

And  half  averted  glances,  till  the  bowers 

Are  pregnant  with  the  hymn,  and  every  rose 

With  fresher  dew,  as  if  in  weeping,  flows, 

And  every  lily  seems  to  wear  a  hue 

Of  paler  tenderness,  and  deeper  glows 

The  pink's  carnation,  and  a  purer  blue 

Melts  on  the  modest  rosemary,  the  wind 

Whispers  a  sweeter  echo,  and  the  stream 

Spouts  stiller  from  its  wrell  ;  while  from  behind 

The  snow-clad  alpine  summits  rolls  the  moon, 

Careering  onward  to  her  cloudless  noon, 

In  fullest  orb  of  silver,  and  her  beam 

Casts  o'er  the  vale  long  shadows  from  the  pine, 

The  rock,  the  spire,  the  castle,  and  away, 

Beyond  thy  towers,  Avignon  !  proudly  shine 

The  broad  Rhone's  foaming  channels,  in  their  play 

Thro'  green  and  willow'd  islands,  while  they  sweep; 

Descending  on  their  bold,  resistless  way, 

And  heaving  high  their  crest  in  wild  array, 

With  all  a  torrent's  grandeur  to  the  deep. 


23 


A  REVERY. 

i  SAW  a  neat  white  cottage  by  a  rill, 

A  limpid  rill,  that  wound  along  a  glade, 

Curling  and  flashing  to  the  Sun ;  a  shade 

Of  willows  brooded  over  it ;  a  hill, 

Not  distant,  heav'd  its  fresh  green  slope,  and  simTd 

With  daisies  and  with  dandelions  ;  oft 

I  wander'd  through  such  meadows,  when  a  child. 

And  lov'd  the  turf  below,  the  sky  aloft, 

So  softly  green,  so  clearly,  purely  blue  ; 

And  as  the  mild  wind,  breathing  odours,  flew 

Serenely  through  the  grass  tufts,  and  the  crown 

Of  dandelions  fill'd  the  fields  with  down, 

Or  some  gay  butterfly,  on  velvet  wing, 

Flitted  around  me,  in  the  hearty  glee 

Of  youth  just  bursting  out  of  infancy, 

And  nerv'd  with  all  the  buoyancy  of  Spring  ; 

Wild  as  the  courser,  when  he  bounds  away, 

And  gives  his  graceful  limbs  their  freest  play, 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  waves  his  flowing  tail, 

His  broad  mane  proudly  heaving  on  the  gale, 

Now  stops — now  with  keen  neigh  and  flashing  eye. 

Leaps  like  the  winds,  and  scours  and  gallops  by — 

So,  in  the  bloom  of  early  life,  I  flew, 

Where'er  the  insect  rov'd,  the  feather  blew, 

For  ever  cheated,  and  for  ever  still, 

The  creature  of  a  wild  and  reckless  will, 

Pursuing  after  bees  and  flowers  anew — 


24 

I  saw  that  neat  white  cottage,  and  I  thought, 

That  was  the  shelter  I  so  long  had  sought, 

And  there  with  one  companion  I  might  rest 

My  weary  head  on  humble  quiet's  breast ; 

And  see  the  Year  come  forth,  and  dress  her  bowers, 

And  o'er  the  lattice  weave  her  veil  of  flowers  ; 

And  now,  in  playful  wandering,  down  the  stream, 

Follow  its  mazy  bend,  and  in  a  dream 

Of  holy  musing,  on  its  banks  of  thyme 

Reposing,  listen  to  its  simple  chime 

Through  glossy  pebbles,  over  pearly  shells ; 

And  stealing  through  the  sunny  meadow,  cull 

And  crown  our  tresses  with  the  lilies'  bells, 

And  with  geraniums  fill  our  bosoms  full ; 

And  then  return,  and  seated  by  the  door, 

The  scarlet  woodbine  flaunting  over  head, 

Recount  our  gather'd  stores  of  Nature  o'er, 

From  flower  to  flower  by  sweet  enchantment  led  ; 

And  then  go  back  to  ages  past,  and  dwell 

With  Contemplation  in  her  holy  cell ; 

And  turning  o'er  the  treasures  of  the  mind, 

Talk  with  the  great,  the  witty,  the  refin'd, 

And  kindle  with  the  ardent :  smile  and  laugh 

With  Butler  and  Cervantes  ;  deeply  quaff 

Rich  streams  of  inspiration  from  the  fount, 

That  flow'd  on  Zion  and  Aonia's  mount ; 

Hang  on  the  tender  tale  with  melting  eye, 

Hour  after  hour  unnotic'd  stealing  by  ; 

Or  with  the  Patriot  rising,  feel  the  swell 


25 

Of  indignation  heaving  in  the  breast, 
And  weeping  go  to  Marathon  and  dwell 
On  barrows,  where  the  brave  unhonour'd  rest  ;- 
And  from  the  kindled  altar  take  the  coal, 
That  fires  the  lip,  and  animates  the  soul, 
And  mounting  upwards  on  a  seraph's  wing, 
Break  from  this  feeble  tenement  of  clay, 
And  rapt  in  reveries  of  glory  spring, 
Singing  and  soaring,  to  eternal  day. 


MOTHERLESS  infant,  to  the  quiet  sleep 
Of  early  death  descending — thou  wilt  die, 
As  others  sink  in  slumber,  and  wilt  lie 
Ere  long  within  thy  narrow  grave — to  weep 
For  those,  who  fall  like  thee,  befits  not — tears 
Are  shed  on  those,  whom  we  have  watch'd  for  yeard> 
Who,  in  our  yielding  hearts,  have  planted  deep 
The  rivets  of  affection — thou  art  fair, 
And  pure  as  rock  sprung  fountains,  where  they  well 
Beneath  o'erarching  roots,  and  scatter  there 
Light  bubbling  dews — pale  infant,  thou  canst  tell 
Of  pain,  but  thou  art  silent,  for  thy  heart 
Is  calm  ;  Remorse  has  never  barb'd  a  dart 
To  sting  and  tear  thy  vitals — for  to  thee 
Regret  can  never  come,  and  thou  wilt  part 
With  being,  as  a  lock  would  fall  from  me — 
Thine  eyes  are  clos'd,  thy  lip  is  still  and  pale. 
3 


2G 

Thy  cheek  is  deadly  wan,  or  faintly  flush'd 
With  hectic  gushings  ;  all  thy  cries  are  hush'd. 
Thy  breath  is  silent,  as  the  summer  gale 
Stealing  through  wither'd  roses — thou  wilt  die, 
And  never  know  the  thousand  ills,  which  wait 
The  fairest  and  the  brightest,  and  thine  eye 
No  bitter  tears  will  scald — thy  early  fate 
Is  dealt  to  thee  in  mercy  ;  thou  wilt  go, 
Unstain'd,  unspotted,  to  a  better  state, 
And  though  thy  scanty  pilgrimage  below 
Was  weary,  often  painful,  it  was  free 
Prom  all  those  stings,  which  long  have  tortured  me. 


IMAGE  of  calm  devotion — on  thy  brow 

The  peace  of  heaven  is  brooding,  and  thine  eye 

Is  lifted  to  its  glories  ;  deeply  thou 

Hast  drank  of  its  pure  fountain ;  therefore  now 

Thy  thoughts  are  center'd  in  the  world  on  high. 

Silently,  as  the  midnight  hours  steal  by, 

Thy  watch  is  on  the  firmament — and  there 

Thou  seest  the  hills  of  heaven  in  prospect  lie, 

As  on  the  passing  gale  the  light  clouds  fly, 

And  heave  their  fleecy  folds,  like  curls  of  air, 

So  thin  and  so  transparent  is  their  veil ; 

Or  dost  thou  mark  some  white-wing'd  angel  sail 

Slowly  athwart  the  moon-beam,  shining  through 

His  spiritual  form  in  every  lovely  hue  ; 


Or  do  more  gentle  thoughts  than  these  prevail. 
And  is  there  in  that  fairy  sky  a  bower 
Sacred  to  love  and  friendship,  where  the  heart 
May  all  its  unchecked  tenderness  impart, 
And  feel  again  the  bliss  of  that  fond  hour, 
When  first  affection  budded,  and  its  bloom 
Open'd  to  Suns  and  Zephyrs,  still  and  warm, 
Ere  chill'd  and  wither'd  by  that  coming  storm, 
Of  all  our  brightest  hopes  the  common  doom — 
Young  as  thou  art,  thy  heart  must  surely  know 
Bitter  and  keen-felt  sorrows,  for  the  tear 
Is  brimming  on  thine  eye-lids,  and  their  flow 
Has  stain'd  thy  cheeks — I  look,  and  seem  to  hear 
From  trembling  lips  a  tone,  that  winds  its  way 
Into  my  sympathising  heart — how  fair 
Thy  soft  cherubic  features ;  they  were  seen 
By  feeling  Fancy  in  its  peopled  air, 
That  teems  with  all  of  beauty  that  hath  been — 
Backward  in  waving  ringlets  flows  thy  hair 
Of  auburn  glossiness  ;  thy  brow  of  snow, 
Smoother  than  sculptur'd  marble,  full  and  high, 
And  crowning  with  its  graceful  curve  thine  eye 
Pregnant  with  thought  and  feeling,  and  its  glow 
When  kindled,  like  a  blade  of  temper 'd  steel  ; 
Those  lips,  that  move  so  touchingly,  and  send 
Persuasion  to  the  listening  youth,  and  blend 
In  rapid  flow  their  smiles  and  tremblings — all 
Around  thy  face  so  Grecian  and  so  holy, 
That  as  I  gaze  upon  its  charms,  I  feel 
My  rising  heart  swell  with  the  tears,  that  fall 


In  tender,  but  delightful  Melancholy — 

Such  tears  are  of  a  holy  kind,  that  shed 

Brightness  on  those,  who  weep  them,  like  the  veil 

Of  dewy  light,  whose  liquid  lustre  throws 

A  clearer  tint  of  beauty  on  the  rose, 

Or  like  the  folds  of  morning  mist,  that  sail 

In  Iris  pomp  around  the  mountain's  head. 

With  thy  pure  spirit,  thy  enchanted  eye 

Reading  the  vision'd  loveliness  of  air, 

The  bright  celestial  forms,  that  wander  there. 

And  often  sweep  with  sounding  pinion  by  ; 

With  thy  soft  bosom,  melting  at  the  tone 

Of  tender,  fond  entreaty,  burning  still 

To  reach  with  tireless  step  the  golden  throne, 

That  truth  has  planted  on  her  holy  hill — 

With  one  so  fair,  so  sweet,  and  yet  so  high 

In  all  her  aspirations,   I  could  blend 

Thought,  wish,  and  feeling — Time  might  hasten  by. 

And  age  invade  us,  Love  could  never  end. 


SONNETS. 

WINTER  is  now  around  me,  and  the  snow 

Has  thrown  its  mantle  over  herb,  tree,  flower ; 
The  icicle  has  tapestried  the  bower, 

And  in  a  crystal  sheet  the  rivers  flow  ; 

And  mustering  from  the  north,  at  evening,  blow 


29 

The  hollow  winds,  and  through  the  star-lit  hour, 

Shake  from  the  icy  wood  a  rattling  shower, 
That  tinkles  -on  the  glassy  crust  below  ; 
And  Morning  rises  in  a  saffron  glow, 

Pouring  her  splendour  through  the  fretted  grove 
In  tints,  that  round  the  heart  enchantment  throw, 

Like  what  the  Graces  in  their  girdle  wove  ; 
And  shining  on  the  mountain's  frosted  brow. 

That  o'er  the  gilded  landscape  looks  afar. 
Her  kindling  beams  the  virgin  mantle  strow 

With  drops  of  gold,  that  twinkle  like  a  star. 


ITS  bitterness  the  heart  alone  can  know — 

The  blight — the  death  of  hope,  and  love,  and  fame  ; 

The  fire,  that  all  can  dim,  and  none  can  tame  ; 
Departed  peace,  which  time  can  ne'er  bestow  ; 
The  tender  feeling  of  unsullied  years, 

When  earth  and  heaven  are  beautiful  and  bright, 

When  nothing  dims  the  eye's  serenest  light, 
And  life  is  fairer  seen  through  innocent  tears — 
O !  who  would  wear  the  tedious  years  away, 

That  hang  around  us,  like  a  rusted  chain, 
Clinging  the  closer  each  dull,  joyless  day, 

And  printing  all  its  links  in  scars  of  pain — 
O  !  who  can  feel  this  bitterness  of  heart, 

This  death-like  chill,  that  curdles  all  the  soul, 
This  ever-writhing  round  a  venom'd  dart, 

Nor  keenly  wish  to  reach  life's  final  goal. 


30 


WHAT  bird  can  sing,  when  storms  are  in  the  sky, 

When  flowers  and  verdure  from  the  turf  are  gone  ; 

How  can  the  nighted  traveller  carol  on 
When  winds  are  loud,  and  lightning  flashes  by  ; 
How  can  the  lip  smile,  when  all  prospects  die, 

When  earth  is  but  one  cold  and  lifeless  waste  ; 
And  how  can  pleasure  brighten  up  the  eye, 

When  hope  has,  like  a  lovely  night-dream,  pass'd — 
When  days  are  lingering  onward  dark  and  slow, 

And  suns  arise,  but  brightly  shine  no  more  ; 
When  gloom  has  cover'd  all,  that  charm'd  below, 

And  nothing  lures  us  on,  when  life  is  o'er ; 
The  heart  has  then  no  fountain  of  delight, 

The  eye  has  then  no  spirit  to  illume, 
A  worse  than  death  has  wither'd  with  its  blight 

All  hope's  fair  visions,  and  all  fancy's  bloom. 


THE  blue  heaven  spreads  before  me,  with  its  keen 
And  countless  eyes  of  brightness — worlds  are  there — 
The  boldest  spirit  cannot  spring  and  dare 
The  peopled  universe,  that  burns  between 
This  earth  and  Nothing.— Thought  can  wing  its  way 
Swifter  than  lightning  flashes,  or  the  beam, 
That  hastens  on  the  pinions  of  the  morn  ; 
But  quicker  than  the  glowing  dart  of  day, 


31 

It  tires  and  faints  along  the  starry  stream, 

A  wave  of  suns  through  boundless  ether  borne. — 

Though  infinite,  eternal !  yet  one  power 

Sits  on  the  Almighty  centre,  whither  tend 
All  worlds  and  beings  from  time's  natal  hour, 

Till  suns  and  all  their  satellites  shall  end. 


DARK  maid  of  Yemen  !  from  the  tufted  grove 
Of  date-trees,  full  in  bloom,  at  sun-set  glowing, 
And  o'er  the  drifted  sand  their  shadow  throwing — 
Maid  of  the  flashing  eye,  that  kindles  love, 
Go  with  me  now  to  yonder  myrtle  bower, 
That  flings  its  perfume  on  the  deep-green  wave, 
And  gathering  from  the  desert  every  flower, 
Bind  in  their  sweetest  links  thy  willing  slave — 
Bring  snowy  rings  from  beds  of  coffee,  twine 
The  myrrh  and  cassia  round  my  offer'd  arms  ; 
O  !  let  the  red-rose  blend  its  freshest  charms, 
And  all  its  breathing  odours  now  be  thine — 
Maid  of  the  glossy  brow,  the  swelling  cheek 
Clear  as  the  juice,  that  ripens  in  the  rind 
Of  Granatine,  whose  locks  flow  on  the  wind, 
Like  the  light-streaming  clouds,  that  often  streak 
The  pure  sky  of  thy  country — Maid  !  whose  tone 
Tells  of  a  heart  that  beats  with  keenest  thrill, 
Whose  glances  burn,  like  serpent  eyes,  that  kill — 


32 

O  !  Maid  of  Yemen,  loose  thy  girded  zone, 
And  spread  abroad  thy  beauty,  now  the  hour 
Of  tender  thought  steals  on,  and  we  are  met 
In  loneliness  and  freedom,  when  the  Power, 
That  sported  erst  amid  the  Grecian  isles, 
Against  our  hearts  his  point  of  flame  has  set, 
And,  as  he  twangs  his  burning  bow-string,  smiles. 


FAIR,  as  the  first  blown  rose — but  O!  as  fleeting, 

Soft,  as  the  down  upon  a  cygnet's  breast, 
Sweet,  as  the  air,  when  gales  and  flowers  are  meeting, 

Bright,  as  the  jewel  on  a  sultan's  vest, 
Dear,  as  the  infant  smiling  when  caress'd, 

Mild,  as  the  wind,  at  dawn  in  April,  blowing, 
Calm,  as  the  innocent  heart — and  O!  as  blest, 

Pure,  as  the  spring  from  mountain  granite  flowing, 
Gay,  as  the  tulip  in  its  starr'd  bed  glowing, 

As  clouds,  that  curtain  round  the  west  at  even, 
O'er  earth  a  canopy  of  glory  throwing, 

And  heralding  the  radiant  path  to  heaven. 

Sweet,  as  the  sound,  when  waves,  in  calm,  retreating, 
Roll  back,  in  gurgling  ripples,  from  the  shore, 

When  in  the  curling  well  still  waters  meeting, 
Clear,  from  the  spout,  the  molten  crystal  pour; 

Sweet,  as  at  distance  heard  the  cascade's  roar, 
Or  ocean  on  the  lone  rock  faintly  dashing, 

Or  dying  thunders,  when  the  storm  is  o'er. 


33 

And  dim-seen  lightnings  far  away  are  flashing; 
Sweet,  as  when  spring  is  garlanding  the  trees, 

The  birds  in  all  the  flush  of  life  are  singing, 
And  as  the  light  leaves  twinkle  in  the  breeze, 

The  woods  with  melody  and  joy  are  ringing, 
When  beds  of  mint  and  flowering  fields  of  clover 

Are  redolent  of  nature's  balmiest  store, 
And  the  cool  wind,  from  rivers,  hurries  over 

And  gathers  sweets,  that  Hybla  never  bore. 

Fair,  as  the  cloudless  moon  o'er  night  presiding, 

When  earth,  and  sea,  and  air  are  hush'd  and  still, 
Along  the  burning  dome  of  nature  riding, 

Crowning  with  liquid  lustre  rock  and  hill, 
Pencilling  with  her  silver  beam  the  rill, 

That  o'er  the  wave-worn  marble  falling  plays, 
Sheeting  with  light  the  cascade  at  the  mill, 

And  paving  ocean  with  her  tremulous  rays, 
Through  the  clos'd  lids  of  dewy  violets  stealing, 

And  gemming,  with  clear  drops,  the  mead  and  grove : 
Such  is  the  light,  the  native  heart  of  feeling 

Throws  round  the  stainless  object  of  his  love. 


FLOWER  of  a  Southern  garden!  newly  blowing, 

Fair  as  a  lily  bending  on  its  stem, 
Whose  curl'd  and  yellow  locks,  in  ringlets  flowing, 

Need  not  the  lustre  of  a  diadem; 


34 

Than  all  the  wealth  of  Ind,  a  brighter  gem; 

Than  all  the  pearls,  that  bud  in  Oman's  sea. 
Than  all  the  corals  waving  over  them, 

Purer  the  living  light  that  circles  thee; 
And  through  thy  tender  cheek's  transparency 

The  vermeil  tint  of  life  is  lightly  flushing, 
Or,  at  the  faintest  touch  of  modesty, 

In  one  deep  crimson  tide  is  wildly  rushing; 
Like  rose  leaves,  when  the  morning's  breath  is  brushing 

Away  the  seeds  of  pearl  the  night-cloud  shed, 
So  thy  twin  opening  lips  are  purely  blushing, 

Ripe  with  the  softest  dew  and  clearest  red; 
Purer,  than  crystal  in  its  virgin  bed, 

Than  fountains  bubbling  in  a  granite  cave, 
Than  sheeted  snow,  that  wraps  a  mountain's  head, 

Or  lilies  glancing  through  a  stainless  wave, 
Purer  the  snow,  that  mantles  o'er  thy  breast, 

And  rests  upon  thy  forehead — O!  with  thee 
The  hours  might  flit  away  so  sweetly  blest, 

That  time  would  melt  into  eternity. 

Go  with  me  to  the  desert  loneliness 

Of  forest  and  of  mountain — we  will  share 
The  joys,  that  only  purify  and  bless, 

And  make  a  paradise  of  feeling  there; 
And  daily  thou  shalt  be  more  sweet  and  fair, 

And  still  shalt  take  a  more  celestial  hue, 
Like  spirits  melting  in  the  midway  air, 

Till  lost  and  blended  in  the  arch  of  blue: 
Alone,  not  lonely,  we  will  wander  through 


35 

Thickets  of  blooming  shrubs  and  mantling  vines, 
Happy  as  bees  amid  the  summer  dew, 

Or  song-birds,  when  the  fresh  spring  morning  shines: 
And  when  departing  life  shall  wing  its  flight, 

And  render  back  the  gift  that  God  has  given, 
Be  then  to  me  a  seraph  form  of  light, 

And  bear  my  fleeting  soul  away  to  Heaven. 


Rose  of  my  heart '.     I've  raised  for  thee  a  bower, 
For  thee  have  bent  the  pliant  osier  round, 
For  thee  have  carpeted  with  turf  the  ground, 

And  train'd  a  canopy  to  shield  thy  flower, 

So  that  the  warmest  sun  can  have  no  power 
To  dry  the  dew  from  off  thy  leaf,  and  pale 
Thy  living  carmine,  but  a  woven  veil 

Of  full-green  vines  shall  guard  from  heat  and  shower — 

Rose  of  my  heart !  here,  in  this  dim  alcove, 
No  worm  shall  nestle,  and  no  wandering  bee 
Shall  suck  thy  sweets,  no  blight  shall  wither  thee, 

But  thou  shalt  show  the  freshest  hue  of  love. 

Like  the  red  stream,  that  from  Adonis  flowed, 
And  made  the  snow  carnation,  thou  shalt  blush, 

And  fays  shall  wander  from  their  bright  abode 

To  flit  enchanted  round  thy  loaded  bush. 
Bowed  with  thy  fragrant  burden,  thou  shalt  bend 

Thy  slender  twigs  and  thorny  branches  low: 
Vermilion  and  the  purest  foam  shall  blend; 

These  shall  be  pale,  and  those  in  youth's  first  glow: 


36 


Their  tints  shall  form  one  sweetest  harmony, 

And  on  some  leaves  the  damask  shall  prevail, 
Whose  colours  melt,  like  the  soft  symphony 

Of  flutes  and  voices  in  the  distant  dale. 
The  bosom  of  that  flower  shall  be  as  white, 

As  hearts,  that  love,  and  love  alone,  are  pure, 
Its  tip  shall  blush,  as  beautiful  and  bright, 
As  are  the  gayest  streaks  of  dawning  light, 

Or  rubies  set  within  a  brimming  ewer — 
Rose  of  my  heart !  there  thou  shalt  ever  bloom, 

Safe  in  the  shelter  of  my  perfect  love, 
And  when  they  lay  thee  in  the  dark  cold  tomb, 

I'll  find  thee  out  a  better  bower  above. 


I  am  the  light  fantastic  queen  of  flowers; 

I  call  the  wind-rose  from  its  bed  of  snow, 
I  pour  upon  the  springing  turf  soft  showers, 

I  paint  the  buds  of  jasmine,  when  they  blow, 
I  give  the  violet  leaf  its  tender  blue, 

I  dip  its  cup  in  night's  unsullied  tears, 
So  that  it  shines  with  richer  glances  through, 

Like  beauty  heighten'd  by  a  maiden's  fears; 
Around  the  elm's  green  arch  I  freely  twine 
The  wooing  tendrils  of  the  clasping  vine, 
And  when  the  vernal  air  is  fresh  with  dew, 

And  the  new  sward  with  drops  bedighted  o'er, 
I  lend  the  butter-cup  its  golden  hue, 

That  glitters  like  a  leaf  of  molten  ore; 


37 

1  dress  the  lily  in  its  veil  of  lawn 

Whiter  than  foam  upon  the  crested  wave, 

Pure  as  the  spirit  parted  from  its  grave, 
When  every  stain,  that  earth  had  left,  is  gone, 
Shining  beneath  the  mellow  sun  of  May, 

Like  pearls  fresh-gather'd  from  their  glossy  shells, 
Or  tints,  that  on  the  pigeon's  plumage  play, 

When  fill'd  with  love  his  tender  bosom  swells; 
I  throw  Aurora  o'er  the  cup  of  gold, 

The  tulip  lifts  to  catch  the  tears  of  heaven, 
Gay  as  the  cloud,  whose  ever-changing  fold 

Heralds  the  dawn,  and  proudly  curtains  even; 
I  take  ihe  rainbow,  as  it  glides  away 

To  mingle  with  the  pure  unshaded  sky, 
And  melting  in  one  drop  its  bright  array, 

I  pour  it  in  the  crown-imperial's  eye; 
I  weave  the  silken  fringe,  that,  as  a  vest, 

Mantles  the^ewr  de  lys  in  glossy  down, 
I  scatter  gold  spots  on  its  open  breast, 

And  lift  in  slender  points  of  blue  its  crown: 
I  am  the  light  fantastic  queen  of  flowers, 

My  bed  is  in  the  bosom  of  a  rose, 
And  there  I  sweetly  dream  the  moonlight  hours, 

While  vermil  curtains  round  my  pillow  close. 


I  am  the  spirit  of  the  viewless  air, 

Upon  the  rolling  clouds  I  plant  my  throne, 
4 


38 

1  move  serenely,  when  the  fleet  winds  bear 

My  palace  in  its  flight,  from  zone  to  zone; 
High  on  the  mountain  top  I  sit  alone, 

Shrouding  behind  a  veil  of  night  my  form, 
And  when  the  trumpet  of  assault  has  blown, 

Career  upon  the  pinions  of  the  storm; 
By  me  the  gales  of  morning  sweetly  blow, 

Waving,  along  the  bank,  the  bending  flowers, 
"Tis  at  my  touch,  the  clouds  dissolving  flow, 

When  flitting  o'er  the  sky,  in  silent  showers; 
I  send  the  breeze  to  play  among  the  bowers, 

And  curl  the  light-green  ripples  on  the  lake, 
I  call  the  sea-wind  in  the  sultry  hours, 

And  all  his  train  of  gentle  airs  awake; 
I  lead  the  zephyr  on  the  dewy  lawn 

To  gather  up  the  pearls  that  speck  it  o'er, 
And  when  the  coolness  of  the  night  has  gone, 

I  send  it,  where  the  willows  crown  the  shore; 
1  sit  within  the  circle  of  the  mo^n, 

When  the  fair  planet  smiles,  and  brightly  throws 
Around  the  radiance  of  her  clearest  noon, 

Till  every  cloud,  that  passes  by  her,  glows, 
When  folds  of  fleecy  vapour  hang  the  sky, 

Borne  on  the  night-wind  through  the  silent  air. 
And  as  they  float,  the  stars  seem  rushing  by, 

And  the  moon  glides  away  in  glory  there; 
I  lead  the  wild  fowl,  when  his  untried  wing 

Boldly  ascends  the  vernal  arch  of  blue, 
Before  him  on  his  airy  path  I  fling 

A  magic  light,  that  safely  guides  him  through. 


39 

When  lost  in  distant  haze,  I  send  his  cry, 

Floating  in  mellow  tones  along  the  wind, 
Then  like  a  speck  of  light  he  hurries  by, 

And  hills,  and  woods,  and  lakes  are  left  behind; 
When  clouds  are  gathering,  or  when  whirlwinds  blow. 

When  heaven  is  dark  with  storms,  or  brightly  fair, 
Where'er  the  viewless  waves  of  ether  flow, 

Calm,  or  in  tempest  rolling,  I  am  there. 


FREEDOM. 

O  !  THOU,  who  dwelt  in  loftiness, 

Ere  man  had  learn'd  to  fall  ; 
Ere  penury  drank,  in  bitterness, 

Its  wormwood  and  its  gall  ; 
Ere  wealth  had  rear'd  its  golden  piles, 

Where  nations  bow  the  knee  ; 
But  health,  all  radiant  o'er  with  smiles, 

Made  man  unbent  and  free. 

Thou  Spirit !  who  pervad'st  the  wild 

And  desert  wilderness  ; 
But  in  thy  wrath  hast  never  smil'd, 

Where  crouching  thousands  press  ; 
Who,  through  the  danger  and  the  dread, 

The  high-soul'd  hero  bore, 
Unshook  by  fear,  by  glory  led, 

Through  battle's  deepest  roar. 


40 

0 1  thou  wilt  never  come  and  dwell, 

Where  men  in  cities  throng ; 
Where  heartless  pimps,  in  triumph,  swell, 

To  power,  a  paean  song  : 
Thou  shun'st  the  base  and  crawling  herd  ; 

The  desert  is  thy  home  ; 
And  with  the  pinions  of  a  bird, 

Thou  only  there  wilt  roam. 

O  Spirit !  take  me  then  with  thee, 

Where  winds  of  ocean  blow  ; 
Tilljife,  replete  with  ecstacy, 

To  inspiration  glow  : 
O  !  let  me  wander  freely  there, 

Till  death  my  being  sever  ; 
Then  through  the  brightest  fields  of  airy 

A  Spirit,  float  for  ever. 


GIVE  the  Warrior  Chief  his  due, 
Him,  who,  to  his  country  true, 
Boldly,  at  her  summons,  flew, 

FirM  with  gallantry ! 
Him,  who  met  the  foe  in  fight, 
And  with  death-fires  lit  the  night. 
Till  his  valor  turn'd  in  flight 

Britain's  chivalrv. 


41 

Crown  him  with  the  laurel  wreath, 
Hail  him  with  the  clarion's  breath^ 
Him,  who,  in  the  face  of  death, 

Battled  fearlessly. 
Let  the  bard  a  chaplet  twine, 
Deathless  gift  of  song  divine, 
And  the  hero's  name  will  shine, 

Through  eternity. 

Cherish  then  the  son  of  song, 
He  shall  proudly  bear  along, 
High  above  the  meaner  throng, 

Light  and  Liberty. 
Let  the  voice  of  music  rise, 
Let  the  Painter  seek  his  dyes, 
In  the  glory  of  the  skies, 

For  the  bold  and  free. 

Let  the  rostral  trumpet  blow, 
And  to  Eastern  Monarchs  show, 
How  the  fires  of  freedom  glow, 

Fires  that  cannot  die. 
Then  our  nation's  fame  shall  thrive, 
And  to  endless  ages  live, 
For  the  song  and  pen  can  give. 

Immortality. 


42 

HAIL  to  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  bold, 

Where  honour  and  justice  have  planted  their  throne, 
Where  the  hearts  of  the  meanest  can  never  be  sold, 

But  order  and  liberty  reign  there  alone- 
Hail  to  the  souls,  that  can  never  be  slaves, 

Who  boast  of  the  rights,  they  have  won  by  the  sword. 
Who  fight  for  their  forefathers  altars,  and  graves, 

And  soar,  as  the  eagle,  who  rescued  them,  soar'd. 

Hail  to  the  land,  we  have  cherish'd  so  long — 

The  soil,  where  the  bright  tree  of  liberty  grows  j 
May  its  root  deeper  sink,  and  its  branches  be  strong, 

While  the  wave  of  the  ocean  in  majesty  flows — 
Long  may  we  meet  and  be  glad  in  its  shade, 

Secure  from  the  tempests  that  madden  the  world  ; 
fts  leaves  shall  be  green,  and  its  flowers  never  fade, 

And  the  starr'd  flag,  that  tops  it,  be  ever  unfurl'd, 

Hail  to  the  cradle,  where  liberty  drew 

The  pure  air,  that  freemen  alone  can  inhale — 
Here  the  crowd  never  toil'd  for  the  gain  of  the  few, 

And  the  palace  ne'er  shadow'd  the  cot  in  the  vale—* 
We  swore  on  our  swords  and  our  hearts  to  unite, 

Till  the  chain  should  be  broken,  the  slave  should  be  free. 
And  the  hands,  that  are  daring  in  battle  for  right, 

To  welcome  as  brothers,  wherever  they  be. 

Then  hail  to  the  nations,  who  wake  from  the  sleep 
Of  a  long  night  of  darkness,  like  giants  from  wine, 

To  the  heroes,  who  rouse  in  their  greatness  and  leap 
To  gather  the  laurels  on  liberty's  shrine — 


43 

Their  fetters  are  broken,  their  tyrants  are  fled, 

And  the  hands  of  the  North  and  the  South  shall  unite 

To  raise,  o'er  the  tombs  of  the  glorious  dead, 
A  temple  of  honour,  and  crown  it  with  light 


"  VANITY  OF  VANITIES,  ALL  IS  VANITY." 

ON  Reggie's  classic  shore  I  stood, 

And  look'd  across  the  wave  below, 
And  saw  the  sea,  a  glassy  flood, 

In  all  the  hues  of  morning  glow  ;* 
(rroves  wav'd  aloft  on  sunward  hills, 

Their  leaves  were  green  and  tipt  with  gold, 
And  all  the  dazzling  pomp,  that  fills 

The  sunset  skies,  was  round  them  roll'd  ; 
Arches  on  arches,  proudly  pil'd, 

Seem'd  towering  to  the  deep-blue  sky, 
And  ruins  lay  deserted,  wild, 

And  torrents  foam'd  and  thunder' d  by  ; 
And  flowery  meadows  soft  and  green, 

In  living  emerald  met  the  light, 
And  o'er  their  dewy  turf  were  seen, 

In  countless  gems,  the  drops  of  night ; 
And  gardens,  full  of  freshest  flowers, 

Unfurl'd  the  pictur'd  veil  of  Spring, 
And  round  the  gay  and  perfum'd  bowers 

Sweet-warbling  birds  were  on  the  wing  ; 

*  The  Fata  Morgana. 


44 

And  many  a  tall  and  stately  spire 

Rose  to  the  clouds,  that  loosely  curl'd, 
And  kindled  each  with  solar  fire, 

Seem'd  beings  of  a  brighter  world ; 
And  mountains  rear'd  their  giant  head, 

And  lifted  high  their  peak  ofsn  o  w, 
And  o'er  its  wide  majestic  bed 

The  ocean  seem'd  to  ebb  and  flow  ; 
And  all  the  wonders  of  the  skies, 

And  earth  and  sea  were  thrown  around, 
And  all  were  stain'd  in  deepest  dies, 

And  vast  as  Being's  utmost  bound ; 
And  on  the  magic  scene  I  gaz'd, 

And  as  behind  the  hills  arose 
The  golden  Sun,  awhile  it  blaz'd 

In  brighter  tints,  and  then  it  clos'd, 
And  all  the  changing  pageant  pass'd, 

In  faint  and  fainter  hues,  away, 
Until  a  tender  green,  at  last, 

Glass'd  o'er  the  still  and  waveless  bay, 
And  Reggio's  towers,  Messina's  wall, 

The  hills,  the  woods,  the  frequent  sail, 
That  trembled  on  the  stream,  were  all 
The  relics  of  the  Fairy  tale. 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  Sun  went  down, 
Deep-crimson'd,  in  the  frowning  sky, 

And  Night,  in  robe  of  dusky  brown, 
Hung  out  her  lurid  veil  on  high  ; 


45 

A  mist  crept  o'er  the  lonely  wild, 

That  heav'd,  a  sandy  ocean,  round, 
And  loosely  lay,  in  billows  pil'd, 

To  the  horizon's  farthest  bound  ; 
The  Sun,  as  if  involv'd  in  blood, 

Shone  through  the  fog  with  direful  beam, 
And  from  behind  the  hills,  a  flood 

Of  liquid  purple  pour'd  its  stream, 
And  o'er  the  dusty  desert  flow'd, 

Until,  as  kindled  by  the  rays, 
The  heated  plain  intensely  glow'd, 

Like  some  wide  forest  in  a  blaze ; 
And  riding  o'er  the  distant  waste 

The  burning  sand-spout  stalk'd  along, 
And  as  the  horrid  phantom  pass'd, 

The  driver  keener  plied  his  thong, 
And  shriek'd,  as  on  the  Simoom  roar'd, 

As  if  the  gather'd  fiends  of  hell, 
Around  in  vengeful  armies  pour'd, 

Had  rung  the  world's  decisive  knell  : 
But  far  away  a  bright  Oase* 

Shone  sweetly  in  the  eastern  sky, 
As  fair,  as  in  the  magic  glass 

Groves,  lawns,  and  hills,  and  waters  lie  ; 
A  lake  in  mirror'd  brightness  lay, 

Spread  like  an  overflowing  Nile, 
Its  peaceful  rippling  seem'd  to  play, 

And  curl  in  summer's  sweetest  smile  ; 

*  The  Mirage  of  the  desert. 


46 


The  sunset  ting'd  the  surface  o'er, 

And  here  it  lay  in  sheeted  gold, 
And  there  the  ruffled  stream,  before 

The  evening  breeze,  in  emerald  roll'd  ; 
And  many  a  white  and  platted  sail 

Dropp'd  softly  down  the  silent  tide, 
Or  as  the  rising  winds  prevail, 

Careening  low  was  seen  to  glide  ; 
And  there  the  fisher  plied  his  oar, 

And  spread  his  net,  and  hung  his  pole, 
And  drove  with  palm  boughs  to  the  shore, 

In  crowds,  the  gaily  glittering  shoal ; 
And  birds  were  ever  on  the  wing, 

Or  lightly  plashing  in  the  flood, 
And  gorgeous,  as  an  eastern  King, 

In  stately  pomp  the  Flammant  stood  j 
And  herds  of  lowing  buffaloes, 

And  light  gazelles  came  down  to  drink, 
And  there  the  river  horse  arose, 

And  stalk'd  a  giant  to  the  brink  ; 
And  shepherds  drove  their  pastured  flocks 

To  taste  the  cool,  refreshing  wave, 
And  on  the  heathy-mantled  rocks 

The  goats  their  tender  bleating  gave  : 
And  o'er  the  green  and  rice-clad  plain, 

In  coats  of  crimson,  gold  and  blue, 
The  small  birds  trill'd  their  mellow  strain, 
And  revell'd  in  the  falling  dew  ; 


47 

And  there  the  palm  its  pillar  heaves, 

And  spreads  its  umbell'd  crown  of  flowers. 
And  broad  and  pointed  glossy  leaves, 

Whose  shade  the  idle  camp  embowers ; 
And  there  the  aged  sit  and  tell 

Their  tales,  as  high  the  light  smoke  curls, 
And  eye  the  dance,  around  the  well, 

Of  fiery  youths  and  black-eyed  girls, 
Or  where  in  many  a  leap  and  curve 

They  keenly  rush  around  the  ring, 
And  with  an  aim,  that  cannot  swerve, 

In  eager  strife  the  jerreed  fling  ; 
And  there  beside  the  bubbling  fount 

The  date  its  welcome  shadow  threw, 
And  many  a  child  was  seen  to  mount, 

And  pluck  the  fruit  that  on  it  grew  ; 
And  with  its  broad  and  pendent  boughs, 

The  thickly  tufted  sycamore, 
The  image  of  profound  repose, 

Wav'd  silently  along  the  shore ; 
And  mangroves  bent  their  limbs  to  taste 

The  wave,  that  calmly  floated  by, 
And  show'd  beneath,  as  purely  glass'd, 

A  softer  image  of  the  sky  ; 
And  groves  of  myrtle  sweetly  blew, 

And  hung  their  boughs  with  spikes  of  snow,. 
And  beds  of  flowering  cassia  threw 

A  splendour  like  the  morning  glow  ; 


48 

And  o'er  the  wild,  that  stretch'd  away 

To  meet  the  sands,  now  steep'd  with  rain, 
The  lilies,  in  their  proud  array, 

With  pictur'd  brightness  gemm'd  the  plain  ; 
And  roses,  damask,  white  and  red, 

Stood  breathing  perfume  on  the  rocks, 
And  there  the  dry  acacia  spread 

Its  deep,  unfading  yellow  locks ; 
And  gardens  brighter  bloom'd  the  while 

Around  the  silver  til'd  kiosk, 
And  brightest  shone  with  sacred  smile 

The  gilded  crescent  on  the  mosque  ; 
And  over  all  calm  evening  drew 

A  tender,  softly  dimming  veil, 
And  mellow'd  down  each  gayer  hue 

To  tints,  that  seem'd  divinely  pale  ; 
It  was  a  lovely  resting  place, 

The  traveller's  home,  the  pilgrim's  well, 
Where  he  might  sit  at  ease  and  trace 

His  wand'rings,  and  his  dangers  tell  ; 
It  rose  at  once  upon  their  sight, 

Like  Paradise  from  heaven  descending, 
And  there,  with  keen  and  eager  light, 

Each  look,  in  panting  hope,  was  bending  ; 
An  island  on  the  pathless  waste, 

It  caught  the  weary  camel's  eye, 
And  on  he  flew  in  wildest  haste, 

As  if  to  drink  the  wave,  and  die  ; 


49 

And  there  the  parch'd  Bedouin  gaz'd, 

As  if  the  cup  of  life  were  given, 
And  then  with  thankful  look  he  rais'd 

His  wither'd  hands  in  prayer  to  heaven  ; 
And  as  he  hurried  on  his  road 

O'er  burning  sand,  and  flinty  rock, 
Before  his  eye  the  phantom  flow'd, 

A  flattering,  but  delusive  mock  ; 
Its  brightest  tints  grew  wan  and  pale, 

Its  fairer  features  faded  dim, 
Till  in  a  dark  and  lonely  vale 

A  mist  alone  was  seen  to  swim  ; 
And  as  the  tear  in  anguish  stole, 

The  last  and  faintest  beam  of  day 
Fled,  and  the  dream  was  seen  to  roll 

And  vanish  in  the  night  away ; 
And  cold  the  wild  Harmattan  blew, 

And  roll'd  the  dusty  billow  by, 
But  still  no  welcome  rain  nor  dew 

Came  down  to  soothe  their  misery  ; 
Parch'd,  burnt,  in  agony  they  tread 

The  waste,  in  hopeless  longing,  o'er, 
A  frowning  sky  above  their  head, 

A  shoreless  sea  of  sand  before. 

And  life  is  but  a  fairy  tale — 

Its  fondest  and  its  brightest  hours 

Are  transient  as  the  passing  gale, 
Or  drops  of  dew  that  melt  in  flowers  : 
5 


50 

And  life  is  but  a  fleeting  dream, 

A  shadow  of  a  pictured  sky, 
The  airy  phantom  of  a  stream, 

That  flattering  smiles,  and  hurries  by  ; 
The  mists  that  hover  o'er  the  deep,* 

And  seem  the  storm-beat  sailor's  home, 
And  still  retiring,  always  keep 

Their  station  on  the  farthest  foam  ; 
Till  imag'd  out,  his  woods  and  hills, 

His  father's  cot,  the  village  spire, 
And  all  his  heated  fancy  wills, 

And  all  his  eager  hopes  desire, 
The  white  chalk  coast  that  fronts  the  billow, 

The  boat  that  trimly  scuds  below, 
The  brook  that  glides  beneath  the  willow. 

With  lulling  chime  and  quiet  flow  ; 
Till  all  he  loves,  and  all  he  longs 

To  meet  and  fold  his  arms  around. 
Come  crowding  in  alluring  throngs, 

And  every  charm  of  home  is  found  ; 
And  round  the  ship  the  meadow  lies, 

That  fill'd  his  hand  with  flowers  in  May, 
And  as  the  billows  onward  rise, 

They  spread  and  blossom  green  and  gay  ; 
But  if  he  stoop  to  pluck  the  grass, 

That  waves  in  frolic  mimicry, 
Away  the  darling  phantoms  pass, 

And  leave  alone  the  bitter  sea  : 

*  The  Mirage  of  the  Ocean. 


51 

And  life  is  but  a  painted  bow, 

That  crowns  our  days  to  come  with  smiles. 
The  mingled  tints  of  heaven,  that  throw 

Their  pomp  on  glory's  airy  piles  ; 
But  when  we  run  to  catch  the  gay 

And  glittering  pageant,  all  is  o'er, 
And  all  its  bright  and  rich  array 

Can  draw  us  fondly  on  no  more  ; 
'Tis  like  the  moon,  who  shines  so  clear 

Above  the  mountains  and  the  groves, 
And  seems  to  float  along  so  near 

The  boy,  he  grasps  the  moon,  he  loves, 
And  dreams,  it  is  some  sweet,  bright  face, 

Who  smiles  in  such  a  pleasant  sky, 
And  he  would  think  it  heaven  to  pass 

His  still,  soft  nights,  that  maiden  by  ; 
He  sits  upon  the  grassy  bank, 

And  rests  his  face  upon  his  hand, 
And  looks  intent,  as  if  he  drank 

The  light  that  silvers  sea  and  land  ; 
And  though  she  smiles  so  sweetly  on 

Her  fond  and  loving  shepherd  boy, 
The  same  bright  face  is  ever  won 

By  those,  who  make  the  night  their  joy  : 
O!  life  and  all  its  charms  decay, 

Alluring,  cheating,  on  they  go  ; 
The  stream  for  ever  steals  away 

In  one  irrevocable  flow  ; 


52 

Its  dearest  charms,  the  charms  of  love. 

Are  fairest  in  their  bud,  and  die 
Whene'er  their  tender  bloom  we  move, 

We  touch  the  leaves,  they  wither'd  lie  ; 
At  distance  all  how  gay,  how  sweet, 

A  very  land  of  fairy  blisses, 
Where  smiles,  and  tears,  and  soft  words  meet. 

And  willing  lips  unite  in  kisses  j 
But  when  we  touch  the  magic  shore, 

The  glow  is  gone,  the  charm  is  fled  : 
We  find  the  dearest  hues,  it  wore, 

Are  but  the  light  around  the  dead ; 
And  cold  the  hymeneal  chain, 

That  binds  their  cheated  hearts  in  one. 
And  on,  with  many  a  step  of  pain, 

Their  weary  race  is  sadly  run  ; 
And  still,  as  on  they  plod  their  way, 

They  find,  as  life's  gay  dreams  depart. 
To  close  their  being's  toilsome  day, 

Nought  left  them  but  a  broken  heart. 


1  SAW  the  Sun,  at  the  dawning  of  dav. 
Chasing  the  mantling  mist  away, 

And  tinging  it  over  with  gold  ; 
The  clouds,  that  before  his  face  were  driven, 
Were  rich  with  the  deepest  hues  of  heaven, 

And  in  volumes  of  crimson  roll'd: 


53 

The  world  was  blooming  and  bright  and  fair, 
But  nor  life  nor  love  was  moving  there. 

I  saw  that  Sun,  at  his  setting  hour, 
Send  over  the  hills  an  amber  shower 

Of  softer  and  mellower  rays  ; 
It  bronz'd  the  trunks  tf  the  moss-grown  wood, 
And  bath'd  their  leaves  in  a  golden  flood, 

As  he  sank  in  his  fullest  blaze  : 
The  world  was  dewy  and  calm  and  fair, 
But  nor  life  nor  love  was  moving  there. 

I  saw  the  Moon,  at  the  noon  of  night, 
Crowning  the  sky  serenely  bright, 

And  gilding  the  waves  below  ; 
Clear  in  her  beam  the  white  frost  shone, 
As  if  over  the  fields  were  loosely  thrown 

A  sparkling  sheet  of  snow  : 
The  world  was  silent  and  pure  and  fair, 
But  nor  life  nor  love  was  moving  there. 

I  saw  on  her  gay  and  purple  wing, 
The  light  and  laughing  spirit  of  Spring, 

Strewing  the  earth  with  flowers  ; 
The  leafless  shrubs  were  hung  with  bloom, 
And  an  airy  wave  of  soft  perfume 

Was  pour'd  from  the  budding  bowers  : 
The  world  was  smiling  and  sweet  and  fair, 
But  nor  life  nor  love  was  moving  there. 
5* 


£4 


I  saw  through  the  shade  of  a  maple  grove, 
In  the  light  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  move 

The  fancied  queen  of  my  soul ; 
From  her  bright  and  quenchless  orbs  of  blue 
The  arrows  of  thought  and  feeling  flew, 

And  the  tears  of  compassion  stole  : 
O  !  she  was  the  image  of  all  that  is  fair, 
And  life  and  love  were  moving  there. 


Two  flowers  were  budding  on  one  stem, 

Imbued  with  fragrance,  fresh  with  dew, 
And  bent  with  many  a  trickling  gem, 

That  trembled,  as  the  west  wind  blew  ; 
And  softly  shone  their  crimson  through 

That  veil  of  crystal  purity, 
And  as  the  thrush  around  them  flew, 

He  clearer  pip'd  his  melody. 

Two  fledglings,  in  a  ring-dove's  nest, 

With  tender  bill,  and  feeble  wing, 
Sat  brooding  on  their  downy  breast, 

And  they  had  just  begun  to  sing, 
And  as  they  saw  their  mother  bring, 

With  tireless  love,  the  food  she  bore, 
They  made  the  woods  around  them  ring 

The  infant  note,  they  carol'd  o'er. 


55 


I  saw,  along  the  ocean,  sail 

Two  barks,  that  flew  before  the  wind  ; 
The  canvass  swelling  to  the  gale, 

They  left  a  foaming  wake  behind, 
And  low  the  bellying  sheet  inclin'd 

As  freshly  blew  the  sweeping  blast ; 
But  still  the  pilot  kept  in  mind, 

There  was  a  peaceful  port  at  last. 

I  saw,  along  the  cloudless  sky, 

Two  stars  adorn  the  brow  of  night ; 
They  shone  serenely  on  my  eye, 

With  pure  and  unoffending  light ; 
The  beam  was  mellower  than  bright, 

Like  gems  that  twinkle  in  their  mine  ; 
It  sooth'd  and  tranquiliz'd  the  sight, 

And  seem'd  a  spark  of  love  divine. 

I  saw  two  sister* — they  were  one 

In  beauty,  sweetness,  age  and  soul  : 
Their  bosom  was  the  stainless  throne, 

Where  virtue  held  supreme  controul, 
Their  hearts  were  pointed  to  the  pole, 

By  God  to  erring  mortals  given, 
The  bright,  the  pure,  the  happy  goal, 

That  waits  the  fair  and  good  in  heaven, 


56 


I  FOUND  thee  on  an  apple  tree,* 

Poor  sickly  and  untimely  flower  ! 
'Tis  not  the  time  for  thee  to  be 

A  garland  to  the  sunny  bower ; 
Thou  should'st  have  waited  for  the  hour, 

When  April  dances  o'er  the  plain  ; 
Without  her  soft  refreshing  shower 

Thy  purple  leaf  is  spread  in  vain. 

The  bough  is  freshly  green  around 

With  all  the  tender  hue  of  May  ; 
But  short  thy  stinted  being's  bound, 

One  wind  will  blow  thy  leaves  away, 
One  frost  will  all  thy  honors  lay, 

And  sear'd  and  brown  thy  tint  will  be, 
And  never  on  an  Autumn's  day, 

The  fruit  will  ripen  after  thee. 

Sad  emblem  of  the  timid  mind, 

The  delicate,  the  shrinking  form, 
The  heart  too  tender,  too  refin'd, 

To  dwell  in  life's  unpitying  storm : 
But  there  shall  come,  a  still,  a  warm, 

A  fragrant,  an  eternal  Spring, 
Where  envy  never  can  deform, 

Nor  power  its  chill,  cold  fetter  fling. 

*  Written  on  finding  a  tuft  of  blossom?,  September,  1821— the 
consequence  of  a  violent  S.  E.  storm,  which  had  destroyed  the  fo 
liage  exposed  to  it. 


57 


SWEET  sainted  haunt  of  early  days,* 
With  thee  my  lingering  spirit  stays, 
And  muses  on  the  balmy  hours, 
When  forth  I  wander' d  after  showers  ; 
When  bushy  knoll,  and  meadow  green, 
Were  spangled  with  the  dewy  sheen, 
And  evening  calmly  came  along, 
And  gave  my  ear  the  rustic  song. 

Sweet  sainted  haunt!  those  days  are  flown. 
And  I  am  left,  to  steal  alone, 
In  tears,  along  a  foreign  shore, 
And  look  the  boundless  ocean  o'er 
For  thy  dear  spot,  and  all  that  threw 
Enchantment  on  my  simple  view  : 
But  truth  has  told  my  heart  too  well, 
That  joy  can  never  with  me  dwell ; 
For  early  hopes  and  loves  are  dead, 
And  every  charm  of  home  has  fled. 


1  HAVE  here  attempted  lo  imitate  a  favorite  pastoral 
measure  of  the  Italian  and  Spanish  Poets.  In  this  age 
of  terza  and  oltava  rime,  of  hexameters,  sajpphics,  and 

*  Suggested  by  reading  an  Ode  to  Vale  Crucis  Abbey,  by  Wil 
liam  Stanley  Roscoe,  Esq. 


58 

anacreontics,  I  can  surely  be  pardoned  for  imitating  a 
measure  in  some  degree  associated  with  those  of  our  lan 
guage  in  rhyme  and  accent. 

J  SAW,  upon  a  mountain, 

A  violet  newly  springing, 

And  round  the  broken  rocks  a  perfume  shedding  ; 

It  grew  beside  a  fountain, 

Its  bubbling  water  flinging, 

And  down  a  turfy  slope  its  current  spreading, 

And  greenest  grass  imbedding  : 

There  the  sun-beams  pour'd  their  glory, 

At  morn,  in  golden  brightness ; 

And  many  a  song  of  lightness 

The  careless  shepherd  sung,  and  many  a  story 

He  told  of  love  despairing, 

Himself  in  all  their  joy  and  sorrow  sharing. 

I  lov'd  that  quiet  valley, 

When  sultry  noon  was  firing 

The  cloudless  sky,  that  o'er  my  head  was  glowing  ; 

And  in  a  cool  dark  alley, 

In  solitude  retiring, 

Where  bending  elms  their  tufted  boughs  were  throwing, 

And  softest  gales  were  blowing  ; 

There  I  breath'd  my  bosom's  anguish 

In  many  a  strain  of  sorrow, 

And  from  the  dove  would  borrow 

Her  melancholy  tones  and  dying  languish. 


59 

When  with  the  zephyr  blending, 

That  murmurs  thro'  the  reeds  before  it  bending, 

In  lonely  peace  reposing, 

I  gaz'd  upon  the  ocean, 

That  in  the  distant  view  was  proudly  swelling  ; 

1  lay  till  day  was  closing, 

And  with  a  softer  motion 

The  ring-dove  flutter'd  round  his  airy  dwelling. 

Still  to  his  turtle  telling 

The  tender  love  he  bore  her  ; 

And  like  a  fond  one  sighing, 

As  if  his  heart  was  dying, 

He  sat  among  the  boughs,  that  trembled  o'er  her  ; 

The  while,  in  eddies  whirling, 

The  mellow  brook  in  day's  last  light  was  curling. 

The  wind  was  faintly  sighing, 

The  boughs  were  lightly  dancing, 

And  down  its  stony  bed  the  brook  was  chiming  ; 

And  now  the  wind  was  dying, 

The  leaves  were  dimly  glancing, 

The  loaded  vine,  that  o'er  the  elm  w»5  climbing, 

Still  with  the  light  air  timing, 

In  a  slower  curve  were  waving 

Its  clusters,  freshly  breathing, 

And  with  its  foliage  wreathing, 

Like  hyacinths  the  early  meadow  paving, 

And  in  the  dewy  morning 

With  richest  hues  the  grassy  plain  adorning. 


60 

-The  Moon  was  on  the  ocean  ; 

The  billows  proudly  swelling, 

Heav'd  to  her  light  their  tops  in  foamy  brightness  ; 

With  slow  majestic  motion, 

O'er  Tethys'  coral  dwelling 

They  curl'd  their  glassy  ridge  in  snowy  whiteness 

Tossing  with  downy  lightness; 

And  loud  and  long  their  roaring, 

Like  peals  of  distant  thunder, 

Or  mountains  rent  asunder, 

When  high  in  air  the  Volcan's  flame  is  soaring, 

Wide  o'er  the  dark  waste  rolling, 

Seem'd  like  a  knell  the  sailor's  ruin  tolling. 

Thro'  leaves  and  boughs  inwoven, 

My  grassy  pillow  shading, 

Her  silver  orb  in  broken  light  was  gleaming  ; 

Now,  where  the  rock  was  cloven, 

Thro'  fleecy  vapour  wading, 

Her  virgin  fire,  in  deeper  distance  beaming, 

In  one  full  flood  was  streaming  : 

With  tender,  sweet  emotion, 

My  bosom  gently  swelling, 

I  sought  my  quiet  dwelling, 

And  rais'd  to  Heaven  my  heart's  intense  devotion. 

Walking  beneath  the  mellow  brightness,  flowing 

From  countless  gems  in  yon  blue  ether  glowing. 


I  WILL  go  to  the  grave  where  my  child  has  gone, 

And  strew  its  turf  with  flowers  ; 
He  was  my  lov'd  and  only  one, 

The  charm  of  my  lonely  hours  : 
O !  he  was  life  in  its  freshest  bloom  ; 

He  cheer'd  me  many  a  day  ; 
His  smile  and  his  beauty  lit  my  gloom, 

And  chas'd  its  night  away. 

Day  after  day,  like  an  opening  flower, 

His  mother's  pride  he  grew  ; 
He  seem'd  like  an  infant  germ  of  power, 

So  bright  he  met  my  view  : 
I  saw,  in  his  gay  exulting  face, 

The  future  greatness  glow  ; 
And  I  thought  his  light  infantine  grace 

To  manhood's  might  would  grow. 

I  read,  in  every  word  and  smile, 

The  father's  look  and  tone  ; 
And  I  hung  on  those  dear  eyes,  the  while, 

As  when  first  our  hearts  were  one  : 
So  bright  a  vision  could  not  last, 

That  dear  illusion  fled  ; 
Like  a  rainbow-cloud  away  it  pass'd 

To  the  cold  and  voiceless  dead. 

But  there  is  a  home,  where  dear  ones  meet, 
And  blend  their  innocent  love  : 
6 


62 

Where  hours  of  happiness  never  fleet, 

In  the  peaceful  world  above  ; 
Where  the  links,  that  bind  our  souls,  by  death 

Shall  never  be  broken  more, 
But  a  better  life,  with  its  quick'ning  breath, 

Shall  every  charm  restore  : 
Then  cease,  ye  bitter  tears,  to  fall ; 

My  heart  its  grief  shall  bear, 
Till  I  hear,  from  heaven,  the  tender  call 

Of  love  invite  me  there. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

HE  has  gone  to  the  land,  where  the  dead  are  still, 

And  mute  the  song  of  gladness  ; 
He  drank  at  the  cup  of  grief  his  fill, 

And  his  life  was  a  dream  of  madness  ; 
The  victim  of  fancy's  torturing  spell, 

From  hope  to  darkness  driven, 
His  agony  was  the  rack  of  Hell, 

His  joy  the  thrill  of  Heaven. 

He  has  gone  to  the  land,  where  the  dead  are  cold. 
And  thought  will  sting  him — never  ; 

The  tomb  its  darkest  veil  has  roll'd 
O'er  all  his  faults  for  ever : 


O  !  there  was  a  light,  that  shone  within 
The  gloom,  that  hung  around  him  ; 

His  heart  was  form'd  to  woo  and  win, 
But  love  had  never  crown'd  him. 

He  has  gone  to  the  land,  where  the  dead  may  rest 

In  a  soft,  unbroken  slumber, 
Where  the  pulse,  that  swell'd  his  anguish'd  breast, 

Shall  never  his  tortures  number ; 
Ah  !  little  the  reckless  witlings  know, 

How  keenly  throbb'd  and  smarted 
That  bosom,  which  burn'd  with  a  brightest  glow, 

Till  crush'd  and  broken-hearted. 

He  long'd  to  love,  and  a  frown  was  all, 

The  cold  and  thoughtless  gave  him  ; 
He  sprang  to  Ambition's  trumpet-call, 

But  back  they  rudely  drave  him  : 
He  glow'd  with  a  spirit  pure  and  high, 

They  call'd  the  feeling  madness  : 
And  he  wept  for  woe  with  a  melting  eye, 

'Twas  weak  and  moody  sadness. 

He  sought,  with  an  ardour  full  and  keen, 

To  rise  to  a  noble  station, 
But  repuls'd  by  the  proud,  the  cold,  the  mean, 

He  sunk  in  desperation  ; 
They  call'd  him  away  to  Pleasure's  bowers, 

But  gave  him  a  poison'd  chalice, 
And  from  her  alluring  wreath  of  flowers 

They  glanc'd  the  grin  of  malice. 


64 


He  felt,  that  the  charm  of  life  was  gone, 

That  his  hopes  were  chill'd  and  blasted. 
That  being  wearily  linger'd  on 

In  sadness,  while  it  lasted  : 
He  turn'd  to  the  picture  fancy  drew, 

Which  he  thought  would  darken  never  ; 
It  fled — to  the  damp,  cold  grave  he  flew. 

And  he  sleeps  with  the  dead  for  ever. 


THE  CORAL  GROVE. 

DEEP  in  the  wave  is  a  Coral  Grove, 
Where  the  purple  mullet,  and  gold-fish  rove, 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue. 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine, 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 

And  the  pearl  shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea  plants  lift 

Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow  j 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 

For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars,  that  glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air: 
There  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush,  like  a  banner  batb'd  in  slaughter  : 


65 

There  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 

The  fan-coral  sweeps  thro'  the  clear  deep  sea ; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean, 

Are  bending,  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea  : 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms, 

Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own  : 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 

Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 
When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 

And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore  ; 
Then  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 

The  purple  mullet,  and  the  gold-fish  rove, 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 

Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 


THE  CARRIER  PIGEON. 

COME  hither,  thou  beautiful  rover, 

Thou  wanderer  of  earth  and  of  air  ; 
Who  bearest  the  sighs  of  the  lover, 

And  bringest  him  news  of  his  fair  : 
Bend  hither  thy  light-waving  pinion, 

And  show  me  the  gloss  of  thy  neck  ; 
O  !  perch  on  my  hand,  dearest  minion, 

And  turn  up  thy  bright  eye  and  peck. 


66 


Here  is  bread,  of  the  whitest  and  sweetest, 

And  there  is  a  sip  of  red  wine  ; 
Though  thy  wing  is  the  lightest  and  fleetest, 

'Twill  be  fleeter,  when  nerv'd  by  the  vine 
I  have  written,  on  rose-scented  paper, 

With  thy  wing-quill,  a  soft  billet-doux, 
I  have  melted  the  wax  in  love's  taper, 

'Tis  the  color  of  true  hearts,  sky-blue. 

1  have  fasten'd  it  under  thy  pinion, 

With  a  blue  ribbon  round  thy  soft  neck  .; 
So  go  from  me,  beautiful  minion, 

While  the  pure  ether  shows  not  a  speck  : 
Like  a  cloud  in  the  dim  distance  fleeting. 

Like  an  arrow,  he  hurries  away  : 
And  farther  and  farther  retreating, 

He  is  lost  in  the  clear  blue  of  day 


THESE  weeping  skies,  these  weeping  skies. 

They  weep  so  much,  that  1  weep  too  ; 
And  every  thing,  like  Mary's  eyes, 

Around,  above,  below,  looks  blue. 
Such  days,  as  these,  will  never  do, 

My  muse  can  never  soar  again  ; 
Her  wings  are  wetted  through  and  through; 

She  tries  to  fly,  but  all  in  vain. 


Love  brought  a  wreath,  a  laurel  wreath, 

And  it  was  steep'd  in  fog,  not  dew  ; 
The  little  urchin  droop'd  beneath, 

And  gladly  down  his  burden  threw. 
"  The  Sylphs  have  sent  a  wreath  to  you." 

He  laugh'd  as  he  his  errand  told. 
:<  What  makes  it  look  so  very  blue  ?" 

Says  Love,  "  it's  only  touch'd  with  mould." 

I  clapp'd  the  wreath  around  my  brow, 

And  felt  my  brain  grow  numb  and  chill  ; 
If  I  had  worn  the  wreath  till  now, 

My  heart  had  been  forever  still. 
O  !  skies,  that  weep  so  much,  will  kill 

The  Muses,  and  their  servant,  Love  j 
Their  home  is  on  the  sunny  hill, 

Where  nought  is  blue,  but  heaven  above. 


FAIR  breaks  the  morning  on  my  eye, 
After  long  days  of  gloom  and  sorrow  ; 
Bright  is  the  cloud,  as  it  floats  on  high, 
Sailing  along  the  purpling  sky, 
Like  the  sign,  at  night,  of  a  clear  to-momw* 

Light  blows  the  wind  along  the  sea, 
[leaving  the  wave  with  peaceful  motion  ; 
Gaily  the  mariner  carols,  free, 


68 

As  a  heart,  that  is  light  and  strong,  can  be, 
When  afloat,  like  a  bird,  on  the  boundless  ocean. 

Dimmer  and  dimmer  grows  the  shore, 
Laid,  like  a  fold,  on  the  water's  pillow  ; 
Steadily  glides,  the  gale  before, 
The  ship,  in  its  fullest  canvass,  o'er 
The  glassy  breast  of  the  rolling  billow. 

Riding  along,  like  a  mighty  ark, 

The  gallant  vessel  skims  the  water, 
Leaving  behind  a  foaming  mark, 
Like  a  whale,  when  he  flies  before  the  bark, 

Impell'd  in  the  crimson  path  of  slaughter. 

O  !  how  delightfully  on  my  eye, 
Comes  the  clear  morn  of  sunny  brightness  ; 
Higher  and  bluer  swells  the  sky, 
With  a  swifter  wing  the  gannets  fly, 
And  the  billow  heaves  with  a  purer  whiteness. 

Give  me  but  winds,  that  steadily  blow, 
Sending  the  ship,  like  a  dart,  o'er  the  ocean  ; 
Then  shall  my  life's  blood  lighter  flow, 
And  my  eye  shall  beam  with  a  brighter  glow, 
And  my  heart  shall  swell  in  its  deep  devotion. 

Country,  and  friends  I  leave  behind, 
Flying,  on  wings,  the  ocean  over  ; 
Come,  with  a  fleeter  foot,  thou  wind, 


69 


And  bear  me  on,  till  my  heart  shall  find 
The  home,  that  awaits  the  restless  rover. 


Now  the  setting  sun  is  glowing, 

Far  along  the  golden  sea  ; 
Many  an  ocean  wave  is  flowing, 

Dearest,  'tween  thy  home  and  me  ; 
To  my  lonely  bosom  showing, 

I  shall  never  meet  with  thee. 

Now  my  heart  is  madly  beating, 

As  I  linger  on  the  west, 
Where  the  golden  sun  retreating 

Blazes  on  the  billow's  breast ; 
Bright  and  fair,  but  oh  !  as  fleeting, 

Was  the  smile,  that  made  me  blest. 

Now  that  orb  is  dimly  stealing, 
To  his  palace  in  the  deep  ; 

Homeward  now  the  gannets  wheeling 
O'er  the  rolling  ocean  sweep  : 

But  in  me  the  pang  of  feeling 
Time  can  never  lay  asleep. 

Let  me  onward,  o'er  the  ocean, 
Distance  cannot  cure  my  ill  ; 
Rise,  ye  waves,  in  wildest  motion, 


70 

But  my  heart  is  throbbing  still ; 
Let  it  burn  with  full  devotion — 
Deeper — it  will  sooner  kill. 


SONG   OF  THE  REIM-KENNAR. 

EAGLE  of  the  far  North-West ! 

Thou,  who  bear'st  the  thunderer's  bow, 
Thou,  who  com'st  with  lightning  crest, 

And  with  eye  of  swarthy  glow  ; 
Thou,  who  lashest  with  thy  wing, 

Wild  in  rage,  the  foaming  deep, 
Till  the  warring  billows  spring, 

And  the  upturn'd  waters  leap  ; 
Thou,  who  send'st  thy  scream  of  wrath, 

Like  a  nation's  dying  cry, 
Sweeping  on  thy  surging  path, 

Like  the  roar  of  tempest,  by  ; 
When  thy  scream  is  wild  in  ire, 

When  thy  wing  is  swift  as  death, 
At  my  bidding,  quench  thy  fire  ! 

At  my  bidding,  hush  thy  breath ! 

Thou  hast  met  the  mountain  pine — 
And  the  towering  wood  is  low  ; 

Thou  hast  spread  those  wings  of  thine — 
Ocean  steeds  their  prowess  know  ; 


71 

When  the  bark  in  triumph  rides 

Proudly  in  its  press  of  sail, 
Lo !  thy  pinions  lash  the  tides, 

And  the  stoutest  seamen  quail  ; 
Where  aloft  the  tower  of  might 

Crowns  in  pride  the  cloud-capt  rock, 
There  thou  bend'st  thy  mad'ning  flight, 

And  it  shivers  in  the  shock  ; 
Though  the  clouds  before  thee  fly, 

Though  thou  rulest  rock  and  tower — 
Thou  shalt  lay  thy  fury  by, 

When  thou  hear'st  my  spell  of  power, 

At  the  uttering  of  my  spell, 

Faint  and  fall  the  flying  deer  ; 
Blood-hounds  cease  their  mutter'd  yell, 

When  the  mighty  sound  is  near  ; 
Then  the  wild  hawks  stoop  their  wing, 

Then  the  wolves  their  howling  hush, 
Then  around  the  magic  ring, 

Glaring  fiends  and  goblins  rush  : 
Thou,  who  scorn'st  the  scream  and  yell 

Echoed  from  the  midnight  wreck, 
Sneering  with  the  laugh  of  hell, 

As  the  wild  waves  sweep  the  deck  ; 
Thou,  who  hear'st,  with  shouts  of  glee, 

Crushing  roof  and  pillar  fall — 
Thou  shalt  listen  unto  me — 

Me,  who  rule  and  conquer  all. 


72 

From  thy  fury  on  the  deep, 

From  thy  madness  on  the  shore, 
Where  the  wailing  widows  weep 

Those,  who  sink  to  rise  no  more. 
From  the  ravage  of  the  wood, 

From  the  sweeping  of  the  plain , 
From  the  swelling  of  the  flood, 

Come,  and  hear  my  runic  strain — 
Let  thy  giant  wing  be  still, 

Let  the  ocean  cease  to  roar, 
Settle  on  that  lonely  hill, 

Dart  thy  bolt,  and  flash  no  more — 
Thou,  who,  from  the  far  North-West, 

Scour'st  the  wild  sea  in  thy  course, 
Fold  thy  rapid  wings  in  rest, 

Conquer' d  by  my  magic  force. 

Eagle  of  the  far  North-West  ! 

Thou  hast  furl'd  thy  sweeping  sail, 
Thou  hast  clos'd  thy  wings  in  rest, 

For  my  charm  and  spell  prevail  : 
Now  I  bid  thee  steal  away, 

O'er  the  calmly  rolling  wave  ; 
Go,  and  till  I  call  thee,  stay 

Slumbering  in  thy  icy  cave  : 
Sweet  and  silent  be  thy  sleep, 

On  the  rock  beneath  the  pole  ; 
Let  thy  rest  be  still  and  deep, 

Till,  thou  feePst  my  strong  control 


73 

1  can  rouse  tbee  with  my  spell, 
Bird  of  might,  and  bird  of  flame  ! 

Then  one  word  thy  rage  can  quelJ, 
And  thy  wildest  fury  tame. 


CALM  AT  SEA. 

THE  night  is  clear, 

The  sky  is  fair, 

The  wave  is  resting  on  the  ocean  ; 

And  far  and  near 

The  silent  air 

Just  lifts  the  flag  with  faintest  motion. 

There  is  no  gale 

To  fill  the  sail, 

No  wind  to  heave  the  curling  billowy 

The  streamers  droop, 

And  trembling  stoop, 

Like  boughs,  that  crown  the  weeping  willow. 

From  off  the  shore 
Is  heard  the  roar 

Of  waves  in  softest  motion  rolling  ; 
The  twinkling  stars, 
And  whispering  airs 
Are  all  to  peace  the  heart  controlling. 
7 


74 

The  moon  is  bright, 

Her  ring  of  light, 

In  silver,  pales  the  blue  of  heaven, 

Or  tints  with  gold, 

Where  lightly  roll'd, 

Like  fleecy  snow,  the  rack  is  driven. 

How  calm  and  clear 

The  silent  air  ! 

How  smooth  and  still  the  glassy  ocean ! 

While  stars  above 

Seem  lamps  of  love 

To  light  the  temple  of  devotion. 


THE  wave  is  resting  on  the  sea, 
Or  only  ripples  into  smiles,. 
That  curl  and  twinkle  silently 
Around  the  cocoa-tufted  isles  ; 
Beneath  the  Moro's  frowning  walls 
The  faintest  chime  of  ocean  falls, 
As  if  the  rolling  tempest-swell, 
Subdued  by  moon-light's  magic  spell, 
Were  murmuring  its  last  farewell  : 
And  now  the  distant  breath  of  flutes, 
Or  tinkling  of  the  light  guitars, 
The  mellow  sound  of  love,  that  suits 
The  silent  winds  and  drowsy  stars, 


7-5 

When  each  discordant  note  is  still, 
And  all  the  hum  of  day  at  rest, 
And  tender  tones  more  inly  thrill 
The  yet  unstain'd  and  virgin  breast — 
These  sounds,  that  tell  the  heart's  devotion, 
Come  floating  upward  from  the  ocean, 
As  skimming  through  the  flaky  foam 
The  light  canoes  are  calmly  driven 
By  winds,  that  send  them  to  their  home 
So  soft,  they  seem  the  gales  of  heaven. 

But  yet  the  reckless  pirate  keeps 
His  tiger  watch,  while  nature  sleeps, 
And  in  his  thirsting  hope  unsheathes 
The  sword,  that  glares  with  sullen  flame, 
With  firm-set  teeth  he  sternly  breathes 
His  curses  on  each  better  name  ; 
Careless  he  stands,  prepaid  to  strike 
Friend,  stranger,  foe,  for  gain,  alike  ; 
As  wolves,  who  gather  in  the  wood, 
And  lurk  till  chance  their  prey  has  given, 
Then  burning  in  their  thirst  for  blood, 
With  fiendlike  yells  are  madly  driven  : 
So  cowers  the  pirate  in  his  cave, 
Till  faraway  the  snowy  sail 
Moves  calmly  o'er  the  mirror' d  wave, 
And  flutters  in  the  dying  gale  ; 
Then,  with  a  demon  swell  of  heart, 
He  hurries  from  the  guilty  shore, 
And  stealing  on  it,  like  a  dart, 
HP  dies  that  snowy  sail  in  gore. 


76 


THERE  's  a  valley,  that  lies  in  the  bosom  of  hills, 

Where  the  wind  ever  calmly  and  silently  blows, 
And  a  stream,  that  collects  from  the  mountain  its  rills, 

Over  pebbles  and  shells  in  a  clear  current  flows, 
Whose  waters  through  meadows  go  stealing  away, 

Reflecting  the  willows  that  grow  on  their  brim, 
And  shun,  under  evergreen  thickets,  the  day, 

Where  the  noon-hours,   when  brightest,  like  twilight 

are  dim  ; 
Where  the  brook  sleeps  as  still,  in  its  ebony  well, 

As  the  hush  of  a  bee  in  the  bell  of  a  flower, 
Or  the  life,  that  is  waiting  to  burst  from  its  shell, 

And  charm,  with  its  melody,  meadow  and  bower ; 
Where  the  leaves,  that  are  platted  and  woven  above, 

Shut  out  every  glimpse  of  the  sun  and  the  sky, 
And  the  flowers  are  as  pale,  as  a  mourner  in  love, 

And  ever  are  wet  like  the  lids  of  her  eye  ; 
Where  sorrow  forever  her  vigil  might  keep, 

And  silence  be  still  as  the  dead  in  their  grave  ; 
Where  the  heart,  that  is  rifled  and  broken,  might  weep. 

And  mingle  its  tears  with  the  motionless  wave  ; 
In  the  shade  of  a  valley,  so  lonely  and  still, 

I  could  live  in  a  quiet  and  fanciful  dream, 
Not  a  wish  of  my  heart  would  go  over  the  hill, 

But  life  glide  away,  like  the  flow  of  the  stream. 


77 


1  WOULD  follow  the  sun,  when  the  North  winds  arise, 
And  Autumn  has  taken  its  blue  from  the  skies  ; 
I  would  go,  with  the  birds  and  the  flowers  in  their  train, 
Like  a  sylph,  o'er  the  wide-rolling  waves  of  the  main, 
And  seek,  on  a  warmer  and  lovelier  shore, 
A  home,  till  the  dark  storms  of  winter  are  o'er. 

'Tis  pleasant  to  stray  in  a  tropical  grove, 
Where  flowers,  fruits,  and  foliage  are  blended  above. 
Where  the  sky,  as  it  opens  so  vividly  through, 
Is  pure,  as  a  spirit  in  mantle  of  blue, 
Where  the  wind  comes  perfum'd  from  the  orange  and  lime, 
And  the  myrtle  is  ever  in  bloom  in  that  clime, 
Where  the  citron  its  green  and  its  gold  ever  wears, 
And  the  birds  are  forever  caressing  in  pairs, 
O!  'tis  pleasant  awhile  in  those  groves  to  remain, 
Till  spring  comes  to  visit  and  charm  us  again. 

But  I  never  could  stay,  when  the  winter  has  fled, 
And  the  flowers  of  the  valley  awake  from  t'ue  dead, 
When  April  has  moisten*  d  the  earth  with  its  shower, 
And  May  is  enamelling  meadow  and  bower, 
When  the  woods  are  in  leaf,  and  the  orchards  are  bloom 
ing* 
And  the  hill  in  the  grey  mist  of  morning  is  looming, 

When  the  air  is  as  sweet  from  the  pear  tree  and  clover, 
As  a  wind  that  has  travell'd  rich  Araby  over, 
When  the  thickets  are  living  with  music  and  wooing, 
And  the  light  wings  of  swallows  their  mates  are  pursuing — 


78 


O  !  when  mountain  birds  call  me,  I  cannot  remain, 
So  away  to  the  land  of  my  fathers  again. 


THE  PIRATE  LOVER. 

THOU  hast  gone  from  thy  lover, 

Thou  lord  of  the  sea  ! 
The  illusion  is  over, 

That  bound  me  to  thee  ; 
I  cannot  regret  thee, 

Though  dearest  thou  wert, 
Nor  can  I  forget  thee, 

Thou  lord  of  my  heart ! 

I  lov'd  thee  too  deeply, 

To  hate  thee  and  live  ; 
I  am  blind  to  the  brightest, 

My  country  can  give  ; 
But  I  cannot  behold  thee 

In  plunder  and  gore, 
And  thy  MINNA  can  fold  thee 

In  fondness  no  more. 

Far  over  the  billow 

Thy  black  vessel  rides, 

The  wave  is  thy  pillow, 
Thy  pathway  the  tides  ; 


79 

Thy  cannon  are  pointed, 

Thy  red  flag  on  high, 
Thy  crew  are  undaunted,. 

But  yet  ihou  must  die. 

I  thought  thou  wert  brave, 

As  the  sea-kings  of  old  ; 
But  thy  heart  is  a  slave, 

And  a  vassal  to  gold  : 
My  faith  can  be  plighted 

To  none  but  the  free  ; 
Thy  low  heart  has  blighted 

My  fond  hopes  in  thee. 

I  will  not  upbraid  thee  ; 

I  leave  thee  to  bear 
The  shame,  thou  hast  made  thee, 

Its  danger  and  care  : 
As  thy  banner  is  streaming 

Far  over  the  sea, 
O  !  my  fond  heart  is  dreaming, 

And  breaking  for  thee. 

My  heart  thou  hast  broken, 

Thou  lord  of  the  wave ! 
Thou  hast  left  me  a  token 

To  rest  in  my  grave  : 
Though  false,  mean,  and  cruel, 

Thou  still  must  be  dear, 
And  thy  name  like  a  jewel, 

Be  treasur'd  up  here. 


80 


THE  FAREWELL. 

MUST  hearts,  who  love  so  dearly,  part, 

And  must  they  bid  adieu  ? 
And  must  those  eyes,  in  weeping,  dart 

Their  last  and  fondest  view  ? 
How  cruel  comes  the  parting  day, 

When  we  have  parted  never, 
And  one  must  wander  far  away 

To  come  no  more  for  ever  ! 

They  liv'd  securely  in  their  glen, 

Like  doves  they  fondly  lov'd. 
And  never  had  their  feet,  till  then, 

Beyond  their  mountains  rov'd  ; 
But  far  away  the  trumpet  calls 

To  danger  and  to  death  ; 
How  cold  and  heavy  on  them  falls 

That  trumpet's  warning  breath  ! 

For  war  is  now  upon  their  shores, 

And  he  must  meet  the  foe. 
Must  go,  where  battle's  thunder  roars, 

And  brave  men  slumber  low  ; 
Go,  where  the  sleep  of  death  comes  on 

The  proudest  hearts,  who  dare 
To  grasp  the  wreath  by  valour  won. 

And  glory's  banquet  share. 


81 

O  !  bright  the  wreath  the  warrior  twines  ; 

But  dark  the  heart  it  covers, 
For  like  a  blasting  fire  it  shines 

On  widow'd  wives  and  lovers  : 
How  glorious  is  the  front  of  fight, 

When  first  the  gun  has  spoken  ! 
But  dimly  gleams  its  after  light, 

For  many  a  heart  is  broken. 

Yes,  they  must  part,  who  lov'd  so  long, 

And  part  for  ever  too; 
How  many  bitter  feelings  throng 

Around  that  last  adieu  ! 
Their  hands  are  press'd,  their  bosoms  meet, 

That  look — what  words  can  tell  ? 
And  faint  the  voice,  when  they  repeat 

That  cold,  that  wild  FAREWELL. 


MY  heart  was  a  mirror,  that  show'd  every  treasure 

Of  beauty  and  loveliness,  life  can  display  ; 
It  reflected  each  beautiful  blossom  of  pleasure, 

But  turn'd  from  the  dark  looks  of  bigots  away  ; 
It  was  living  and  moving  with  loveliest  creatures, 

In  smiles  or  in  tears,  as  the  soft  spirit  chose  ; 
Now  shining  with  brightest  and  ruddiest  features, 

Now  pale  as  the  snow  of  the  dwarf  mountain  rose, 


82 

These  visions  of  sweetness  forever  were  playing, 

Like  butterflies  fanning  the  still  summer  air  ; 
Some  sported  a  moment,  some,  never  decaying, 

In  deep  hues  of  love  are  still  lingering  there  : 
At  times  some  fair  spirit,  descending  from  heaven, 

Would  shroud  all  the  rest  in  the  blaze  of  its  light ; 
Then  wood  nymphs  and  fays  o'er  the  mirror  were  driven, 

Like  the  fire-swarms,  that  kindle  the  darkness  of  night. 

But  the  winds  and  the  storms  broke  the  mirror,  and  sever'd 

Full  many  a  beautiful  angel  in  twain  ; 
And  the  tempest  rag'd  on,  till  the  fragments  were  shiver'd 

And  scatter'd,  like  dust,  as  it  rolls  o'er  the  plain  : 
One  piece,  which  the  storm,  in  its  madness,  neglected 

Away,  on  the  wings  of  the  whirlwind,  to  bear, 
One  fragment  was  left,  and  that  fragment  reflected 

All  the  beauty,  that  MARY  threw  carelessly  there. 


LET  us  love  while  life  is  young, 
And  the  vital  stream  is  glowing  j 

When  the  heart  is  newly  strung, 
And  the  tide  of  health  is  flowing. 

Let  us  pluck  the  Paphian  rose, 
When  its  bud  is  first  unfolding  ; 

Ere  its  wither'd  petals  close, 
In  the  misty  darkness  moulding. 


83 

Pluck  it,  when  the  morning  dew 
Twinkles  on  the  new-blown  flower, 

And  the  vernal  sky  of  blue, 

Opens  through  the  melting  shower. 

Pluck  it,  when  the  air  is  sweet, 

And  the  winds  no  more  are  chilling ; 

When  the  loving  swallows  meet, 
And  the  soft-ey'd  doves  are  billing. 

Weave  it  in  a  wreath  of  bloom, 
Let  it  bind  our  hearts  together  ; 

Now  when  life  is  all  perfume, 

Warm  and  bright  as  April  weather. 

Now  when  life  is  dancing  on, 

Like  a  brook,  where  flowers  are  blowing, 
Curling  upward  to  the  sun, 

Or  in  mirror'd  beauty  flowing  ; 

Ere  those  waving  locks  of  jet, 

By  the  touch  of  age,  are  thinning, 

While  the  cheek  is  blooming  yet, 
And  the  eye  is  bright  and  winning. 

Love,  in  life's  delightful  spring — 
You  will  find  returning  passion  ; 

Wait,  till  youth  has  taken  wing — 
Love  will  then  be  out  of  fashion. 


84 

If  you  have  a  bosom,  bright 
Longer  than  the  form  around  it, 

Beauty  never  will  requite 

Love  like  that,  but  only  wound  it. 


O  !  NOW'S  the  hour,  when  air  is  sweet, 

And  birds  are  all  in  tune, 
To  seek  with  me  the  cool  retreat, 

In  bright  and  merry  June ; 
When  every  rose-bush  has  a  nest. 

And  every  thorn  a  flower, 
And  every  thing  on  earth  is  blest, 

This  sweet  and  holy  hour. 

O  come,  my  dear,  when  evening  flings 

Her  veil  of  purple  round, 
And  zephyr,  on  his  dewy  wings, 

Sweeps  o'er  the  flowery  ground  ; 
When  every  bird  of  day  is  still, 

And  stars  are  bright  above, 
O  come,  my  dear,  and  we  will  fill 

Our  cup,  and  drink  of  love. 

We'll  fill  it  from  the  pure  blue  sky, 
And  from  the  glowing  west, 

And  catch  its  spirit  in  thine  eye, 
And  in  the -small  bird's  nest ; 

And  take  its  sweetness  from  the  flowers, 
Its  freshness  from  the  spring, 


85 

Its  coolness  from  the  dewy  hours, 
When  night-hawks  take  the  wing. 

Then  we  will  wander  far  away, 

Along  the  flowery  vale, 
Where  winds  the  brook,  in  sparkling  play, 

And  freshly  blows  the  gale ; 
And  we  will  sit  beneath  the  shade, 

That  maples  weave  above, 
And  on  the  mossy  pillow  laid, 

Will  drink  the  cup  of  love. 


THY  charms  are  all  decaying,  love, 
The  smile  that  once  was  playing,  love, 

So  pure  and  bright, 

It  seem'd  but  light 
From  day's  clear  fountain  straying,  love: 

That  smile  away  is  stealing,  love, 
Thy  lip  no  more  revealing,  love, 

The  sweets  of  soul, 

That  Cupid  stole 
To  fill  his  cup  of  feeling,  love; 

That  lip  will  shed  its  sweetness,  love, 
Thy  form  will  lose  its  fleetness,  love, 
8 


86 

Array  5d  no  more, 
As  when  it  wore 
The  snowy  veil  of  neatness,  love. 

Oh !  time  is  stealing  by  us,  love, 
And  age  is  drawing  nigh  us,  love, 

So  let  me  sip 

Thy  dewy  lip 
Before  the  young  hours  fly  us,  love. 

The  rose  of  youth  is  blowing,  love, 
The  tide  of  health  is  flowing,  love, 

Then  let  me  be 

Entwin'd  to  thee, 
As  elms  and  vines  are  growing,  love. 

A  chain  of  flowers  has  twin'd  us,  love, 
And  blest  the  hours  shall  find  us,  love, 

Then  heart  from  heart 

No  more  shall  part, 
Till  age  and  death  unbind  us,  love. 


THE  LUNATIC  GIRL. 

'TwAS  on  a  moonshine  night  like  this,  we  took  our  last 

farewell ; 
And  as  he  gave  his  parting  kiss,  I  felt  my  bosom  swell; 


87 

He  said,  '  Adieu,  my  Caroline,'  but  I  said  not  a 
Yet  never  heart  was  fond,  like  mine — how  wild  that  dark 
bush  stirr'd  ! 

The  moon  was  round,  the  moon  was  bright,  the  moon 

was  riding  high  ; 

It  was  just  such  a  pleasant  night,  and  he  was  standing  by: 
The  sweet  bird  sung  his  roundelay,  he  mock'd  me  all 

night  long; 
'Tis  winter,  and  he's  flown  away,  or  I  should  hear  his 

song. 

The  moon  looks  down  upon  the  spring — she  cannot  melt 

it  though  ; 
The  pretty  bird  has  spread  his  wing — he  does  not  love 

the  snow  : 
The  winds  blow  hard — they  say,  at  sea,  such  winds  will 

raise  a  storm ; 
1  wish  my  love  was  here  by  me — my  heart  would  keep 

him  warm. 

I  have  a  hat  of  straw  for  thee — I  wove  it,  and  I  wept, 
To  think  thou  wert  so  far  at  sea,  and  I  the  toy  have  kept ; 
I  made  a  basket,  which  T  fill'd,  with  lilies  to  the  brim; 
But  plucking  them  their  beautykill'd,andsol  tho'tof/m/?. 

They  say  the  moon  loves  such  as  I — her  love  is  very  cold; 
She  floats  so  softly  through  the  sky,  I'd  take  her  down 
and  fold 


88 

My  cloak  around  her  snowy  face,  and  warm  her  on  my 

heart — 
O !  no — she  needs  a  warmer  place — How  could  we  ever 

part! 

What  can  my  heart  have  done,  to  make  me  love  so  much 

the  moon  ? 

My  fingers  are  so  cold,  they  ache — I  shall  be  frozen  soon: 
I  would  not  love  my  lover  so — my  tears  are  never  dry; 
I  hear  him  call,  and  I  must  go — and  so.  sweet  moon,  good 

bye. 


COMB  to  my  heart,  thou  stricken  deer ! 

The  world  has  aim'd  its  shaft  at  thee; 
There  is  a  welcome  shelter  here, 

There  are  no  enemies  with  me. 
Thou  art  too  fair  and  delicate, 

To  bide  the  cold  and  pelting  storm: 
Oh  !  fly  the  world,  that  can  but  hate 

The  brighter  cheek  and  fairer  form. 

Fly  to  my  heart,  thou  mourning  dove  ! 

And  seek  a  refuge  in  my  nest; 
I'll  fold  around  my  wings  of  love, 

And  hush  thy  beating  pulse  to  rest, 
I  heard  the  death-shot  in  the  wood, 

I  saw  the  fowler  clip  thy  wing: 


89 

Thy  ruffled  wings  are  dropp'd  with  blood, 
But  here  no  foe  a  dart  shall  bring. 

Come  to  my  home,  thou  bleeding  heart ! 

And  trust  thy  woes  to  me  alone; 
For  thou  may'st  all  thy  griefs  impart, 

And  I  will  take  them  as  my  own. 
I  have  a  healing  balm  for  thee, 

To  stanch  thy  blood,  and  sooth  thy  pain; 
For  kindly  touch'd  by  sympathy, 

Thy  wound  shall  never  bleed  again. 

The  world  may  scorn  thee,  if  they  please, 

But  I  will  dare  to  love  thee  still; 
Beneath  these  darkly  sheltering  trees, 

I'll  guard  thee  safe  from  every  ill. 
For  I  have  found  thee  kind  and  true, 

A  tender  heart,  a  melting  soul, 
And  still  I  see  thine  eye  of  blue 

As  brightly  and  as  purely  roll. 


O  !  WILT  thou  go  with  me,  love, 
And  seek  the  lonely  glen  ? 

O !  wilt  thou  leave  for  me,  love, 
The  smiles  of  other  men  ? — 

The  birds  are  there  aye  singing, 
And  the  woods  are  full  of  glee, 
8* 


90 

And  love  shall  there  be  flinging 
His  roses  over  thee. 

O !  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  dear, 

And  share  my  humble  lot  ? 
O!  wilt  thou  live  with  me,  dear, 

Within  a  lowly  cot? — 
Though  beauty  hath  enshrouded  thee 

With  all  that's  sweet  and  fair, 
The  sorrows,  that  have  clouded  thee, 

Shall  all  be  wanting  there. 

O  !  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  Anne, 

To  yonder  mountain  side, 
And  happy  there  in  me,  Anne, 

Ne'er  sigh  for  aught  beside  ? — 
Oh !  heaven  shall  there  be  over  us 

Unclouded,  pure,  and  bright, 
And  wings  of  love  shall  cover  us, 

And  all  around  be  light. 

^es,  thou  wilt  go  with  me,  love, 

I  see  it  in  thy  smile, 
And  I  will  be  to  thee,  love, 

Thy  shelter  all  the  while; 
And  thou  shalt  spread  thy  bloom  around, 

And  be  all  sweet  and  fair, 
And  every  sight,  and  touch,  and  sound 

Shall  be  ecstatic  there. 


91 

Yes,  them  wilt  go  with  me,  dear, 
The  cot  shall  be  thy  home, 

And  never  near  its  roof,  dear, 
Shall  want  or  sorrow  come; 

0  !  I  will  be  the  parent  dove, 
That  hovers  o'er  her  nest, 

And  we  will  know  how  sweet  is  love 
Caressing  and  caress'd. 

Yes,  thou  wilt  go  with  me,  Anne, 
Though  seas  are  now  between, 

And  thou  wilt  dwell  with  me,  Anne, 
In  woodlands  flower' d  and  green  ; 

1  cannot  cross  the  sea  to  thee, 

I  do  not  love  that  shore, 
So  cross  the  ocean,  dear,  to  me, 
And  we  will  part  no  more. 


O  !  MARY,  my  dearest,  though  waves  roll  between  us, 

The  light  of  thy  beauty  still  lives  in  my  heart; 
Though  gone  all  the  bright  sunny  days,  that  have  seen  us 

Smiles,  and  whispers,  and  glances  of  feeling  impart; 
Though  gone  are  the  hours,  when  the  Universe  bright- 
en'd, 

And  glovv'd  with  the  purest  effulgence  of  love, 
When  joy,  like  the  flash  of  a  summer-cloud,  lighten'd, 

And  life  seem'd  as  sweet,  as  they  say  'tis  above. 


92 

O  !  Mary,  dear  Mary,  I  cannot  forget  thee, 

Though  coldness  hath  parted  my  spirit  from  thine; 
For  ever  the  moment  of  bliss,  when  I  met  thee, 

Shall  live  and  be  bright  in  this  bosom  of  mine  ; 
The  smile  on  thy  lip,  and  the  words  that  were  spoken, 

The  glance  that  reveal'd  me  the  fire  of  thy  soul, 
Like  a  dream  of  enchantment,  that  cannot  be  broken, 

Around  me  in  all  their  first  loveliness  roll. 

O  !  Mary,  sweet  Mary,  O  !  canst  thou  forget  me, 

And  think,  never  think,  how  we  look'd  and  we  lov'd  ? 
O !  wilt  thou  not  bid  me  return  there,  and  let  me 

Be  yet  by  thy  sweetness  to  ecstacy  mov'd  ? — 
O  !  bid  me  return — and  my  spirit  shall  fly  then, 

Like  doves  from  the  storm,  and  the  hawk  to  their  home, 
And  my  heart  for  no  happier  dwelling  shall  sigh  then, 

But  cling  to  thee — never,  ah!  never  to  roam. 


HERE  the  air  is  sweet, 

Fresh  from  the  roses  newly  blowing; 
Here  the  waters  meet, 

Down  the  grassy  valley  flowing; 
Here  the  bands  of  ivy  twine, 
Here  the  bells  in  yellow  shine 
On  the  flowering  gelsemine, 

Round  the  woven  trellice  growing. 


93 

Here  the  flitting  breeze 

Wafts  afar  the  musky  treasure, 
And  the  wanton  bees 

Sip  the  honied  fount  of  pleasure; 
Here  the  loving  spirits  dwell, 
Here  they  sit,  and  weav«  their  spell, 
And  within  the  blossom's  bell 

Tune  their  soul-dissolving  measure. 

Here  the  wind  is  balm, 

Laden  with  the  breath  of  roses; 
Here  the  air  is  calm, 

And  the  sleeping  noon-flower  closes; 
Now  the  sun  is  setting  bright, 
And  his  arch  of  purple  light 
Heralding  the  summer  night, 

Earth  in  dreams  of  bliss  reposes. 

Here's  a  magic  bower — 

O'er  it  budding  vines  are  creeping, 
And  a  dewy  shower, 

By,  a  bank  of  turf  is  steeping; 
Though  the  fallen  winds  are  mute, 
Faintly  from  the  sweet-blown  flute, 
Tones,  that  with  the  stillness  suit, 

Harmonies  of  love  are  keeping. 

1  am  here  alone — 

Far  has  fled  my  flowery  dreaming, 
All  its  beauty  flown 

Like  a  bow  by  moonlight  gleaming, 


94 

Fancy's  day  of  love  is  o'er, 
All  its  rich  and  golden  store 
Ne'er  can  charm  my  spirit  more 
With  its  false,  but  fairy  seeming. 


DOVE  of  my  heart !  I've  built  a  nest 

For  thee  and  for  thy  young  ones  too, 
Where  they  may  sweetly  sleep,  caress'd 
Beneath  thy  warm  and  downy  breast, 
As  infants  in  their  cradles  do. 

I've  bent  around  a  limber  vine, 
To  form  for  thee  a  cool  recess; 

I'll  scatter  roses  there,  and  twine 

Above  an  arch  of  eglantine, 

That  all  within  may  charm  and  bless. 

And  when  the  frequent  falling  showers 
Make  green  the  tender  turf  in  May, 

I'll  go  and  pluck  the  young-ey'd  flower? 

Just  opening  in  the  lilac  bowers, 
And  on  thy  mossy  pillow  lay. 

And  when  the  sky  is  bright  in  June, 

I'll  sit  within  a  neighbouring  shade; 
And  at  the  silent  hour  of  noon 
I'll  put  my  mourning  voice  in  tune 
To  sigh  around  the  lonely  glade. 


95 

O !  come,  thou  soft  retiring  dove, 
And  sit  within  my  downy  nest ; 
I'll  spread  my  sky-blue  wings  above. 
Then,  in  the  shadow  of  my  love, 
Brood  o'er  thy  young  ones,  and  be  blest. 


SHE  has  no  heart,  but  she  is  fair — 
The  rose,  the  lily  can't  outvie  her; 

She  smiles  so  sweetly,  that  the  air 

Seems  full  of  light  and  beauty  nigh  her. 

She  has  no  heart,  but  yet  her  face 
So  many  hues  of  youth  revealing, 

With  so  much  liveliness  and  grace, 
That  on  my  soul  'tis  ever  stealing. 

She  has  no  heart,  she  cannot  love, 
But  she  can  kindle  love  in  mine — 

Strange,  that  the  softness  of  a  dove 
Round  such  a  thing  of  air  can  twine. 

She  has  no  heart — her  eye,  tho'  bright, 
Has  not  the  brightness  of  the  soul; 

'Tis  not  the  pure  and  tender  light, 
That  love  from  seraph  beauty  stole. 


96 

'Tis  but  a  wild  and  witching  flame, 
That  leads  us  on  awhile  thro'  flowers, 

Then  leaves  us,  lost  in  guilt  and  shame; 
To  mourn  our  vain  departed  hours. 

Go  then  from  me — thou  canst  not  chain 
A  soul,  whose  flight  is  wing'd  above; 

Turn  not  on  me  thine  eye  again; 
Thou  hast  no  heart,  thou  canst  not  love 


THE  winds  of  the  winter  are  over, 

The  flowers  and  the  green  leaves  return; 
The  meadow  is  mantled  in  clover, 

The  hillock  is  scented  with  fern; 
The  blue  birds  are  flitting  and  singing 

Their  love-notes  in  thicket  and  tree, 
But  the  flowers  and  the  sweet  birds  are  bringing 

No  spring  and  no  beauty  to  me. 

My  hopes  have  departed  for  ever, 

My  vision  of  true  love  is  o'er, 
My  heart  shall  awaken — ah !  never, 

There's  a  spring  to  my  bosom  no  more ; 
The  roses  that  crown'd  me,  are  blighted, 

The  garland,  I  cherish'd,  is  dead; 
The  faith,  we  had  promis'd  and  plighted, 

Is  broken — my  lover  has  fled. 


97 

They  saw  that  my  life  was  decaying, 

For  my  cheek  lost  its  bloom,  and  grew  pale; 
They  saw  that  my  spirit  was  straying, 

But  I  told  not  a  word  of  my  tale; 
Not  a  whisper  reveal'd  my  deceiver, 

Not  an  ear  heard  me  sigh  or  complain, 
For  my  heart  still  ador'd  its  bereaver, 

And  I  hop'd,  1  should  meet  him  again. 

He  came — but  another  had  rifled 

The  troth,  he  had  plighted  to  me; 
I  look'd  on,  and  my  agony  stifled, 

Tho'  it  burn'd  like  the  sting  of  a  bee — 
O  !  the  Sun  is  now  sinking  in  billows, 

That  roll  o'er  the  hills  in  the  west; 
But  morning  will  shine  thro'  the  willows, 

And  find  me  for  ever  at  rest. 


THE  dark  cloud  is  over,  the  storm  flies  away, 
The  sun  glances  out  at  the  closing  of  day, 
The  air  now  is  freshen'd  with  rain  and  with  dew, 
And  the  turf  shows  a  greener  and  livelier  hue; 
Tho'  day  is  departing,  the  birds  are  awake, 
And  in  full  burst  are  merry  in  forest  and  brake; 
The  mist  hovers  over  the  fountain  and  rill, 
And  curls  in  light  folds  on  the  slope  of  the  hill; 
9 


98 

The  bright  arch  of  beauty  its  loveliness  throws 
O'er  the  cloud,  as  the  west  takes  the  tint  of  the  rose. 

New  fragrance  is  flowing  from  garden  and  bower, 
The  flowers  are  all  urns  deeply  fill'd  with  the  shower. 
And  their  incense  is  rising  and  floating  away 
To  hallow  and  sweeten  the  closing  of  day; 
The  lily,  in  purer  and  silkier  white, 
Is  gemm'd  with  the  tenderest  touches  of  light, 
The  rose  shines  with  deeper  carnation,  and  breathes 
Softer  balm,  as  the  maiden  her  coronal  wreathes, 
And  brighter  and  clearer  the  round  pearls,  that  drip 
From  its  leafets  to  blend  with  the  dew  of  her  lip. 

O  !  there  is  not  a  sweeter  and  lovelier  hour, 
Than  the  bright  sunny  evening,  that  follows  a  shower — 
Like  a  hand  o'er  the  heart  strings  in  tenderness  thrown. 
It  tunes  every  thought  to  the  mellowest  tone; 
Then  the  eye  flashes  keen,  tho'  the  press'd  lip  be  still, 
And  hand  touches  hand  with  a  livelier  thrill; 
Then  soft  words,  in  whispers  of  fondness,  are  flowing, 
And  the  cheek,  with  the  warm  flush  of  passion,  is  glowing; 
There  is  silence  and  sweetness  in  earth  and  in  air, 
And  the  spirit  of  love  and  of  beauty  is  there. 


THE  frenzy  of  a  lover,  who  can  tell  ? 

The  glow  and  flush  of  feeling,  when  the  eye 


99 

Dilates  o'er  beauty,  and  the  burning  sigh 

Heaves  deep,  and  strong,  and  frequent,  from  the  swell 

Of  hearts  o'erwrought  to  rapture — who  can  give 

The  colours  to  the  canvass,  that  portray, 

On  cheek,  and  lip,  and  brow,  the  changeful  play 

Of  Hope,  Despair,  of  ecstacy  and  pain 

Too  keen  for  common  hearts  to  feel  and  live, 

The  long,  long  wish  to  meet  those  eyes  again, 

The  disappointed  hope  deferr'd,  till  all 

Is  hung  around  with  doubt's  funeral  pall, 

And  darkness  veils  the  spirit,  like  the  gloom 

Thrown  in  embodied  blackness  from  the  tomb — 

O  !  there  are  feelings,  which  no  tongue  hath  power 

To  utter,  which  come  o'er  him  at  the  hour, 

When  looks  of  kindness  flash  into  his  soul, 

And  tones,  that  tell  affection  greet  his  ear, 

And  sweet  smiles  answer,  when  she  leans  to  heas 

His  whisper'd  heart — O  !  then  their  feelings  roll 

Wild  as  the  ocean,  when  the  winds  have  blown 

Madly,  but  now  the  tempest  far  has  flown, 

And  on  the  curling  foam,  and  bursting  wave, 

The  sun  in  all  his  pomp  of  brightness  glows, 

And  stars  and  flakes  of  liquid  lightning  pave 

The  clefted  billows,  where  they  rush  and  rave 

Around  the  vessel,  as  she  proudly  goes, 

Leaping  impetuous  on,  from  surge  to  surge. 

Like  coursers,  whom  the  calls  of  battle  urge 

Onward,  with  quivering  bound  and  flashing  eye, 

To  mingle  in  the  thickest  fight  and  die. 


100 


THEY  gaz'd  upon  each  other — they  were  young. 
In  the  first  bloom  of  beauty — she  was  fair — 
Around  her  marble  neck  her  raven  hair, 

In  flowing  curls  and  waving  tresses  hung; 

There  was  a  pensive  spirit  in  her  eye, 
Whose  sparkling  jet,  beneath  a  falling  lid 
Fring'd  with  its  long  dark  lashes,  vainly  hid 

The  fire  of  love  that  lit  it.  She  would  try 
To  seem  light-hearted,  hut  whene'er  she  met 
The  eye,  that  fix'd  upon  her,  darkly  set 

The  dawning  of  her  mirth,  and  deeper  glow'd 
The  clear  carnation  of  her  tender  cheek; 
And  though  she  often  strove  to  smile,  and  speak 

Gaily,  the  quiv'ring  lip  and  accent  show'd, 
A  fire  was  in  her  bosom,  whose  pure  flame 
Not  time,  nor  want,  nor  force,  could  quench,  or  tame, 
But  round  her  heart  the  torch  would  ever  play, 
And  eat,  through  hopeless  years,  her  life  away. 


BENEATH  the  pensive  willow's  shade, 
As  evening  melts  in  yonder  sky, 

In  careless  ease,  inglorious  laid, 
My  dreaming  moments  hover  by. 

Why  should  the  mind  be  rack'd  with  care  ? 
Why  should  the  bosom  beat  with  pain  ? 


101 

Our  hopes  all  end  in  blank  despair, 

Our  strife  for  power  and  wealth  is  vain. 

They  cannot  dry  one  trickling  tear, 
They  cannot  hush  one  bursting  sigh, 

They  cannot  quell  the  gloomy  fear 
Of  death,  or  bid  its  phantoms  fly. 

Then  all  in  peace  inglorious  laid, 
At  dewy  evening's  quiet  dawn, 

O  !  let  me  trace  the  mellow  shade 
Advancing  o'er  the  silent  lawn. 

Without  one  wish  beyond  my  lyre, 
I'd  all  my  careless  hours  employ 

In  music,  and  awake  the  wire 

To  tones  of  grief,  and  trills  of  joy. 


PARAPHRASE  OF  ISAIAH  XXXIV.* 

1   Come  near,  ye  people,  to  the  Almighty  Lord; 
Come,  listen,  all  ye  nations,  to  his  word, 
And  hear  the  fiat  of  his  sure  decree: 

*  The  imagery  throughout,  has  been  adapted  as  much  as  possi 
ble  to  Babylon.  Wherever  a  variation  from  the  common  transla 
tion  has  been  made,  the  notes  to  Michael  is'  Hebrew  Bible  have 
been  followed. 


102 

Let  the  wide  earth  re-echo  to  the  sound, 
The  world,  and  all  its  fulness  ring  around; 
For  what  Jehovah  utters — that  shall  be. 

Against  the  nations  he  has  bar'd  his  wrath; 
Fury  and  indignation  mark  his  path, 

And  all  their  armies  backward  shrink  in  dread  : 
Their  hosts  to  one  wide  slaughter  he  hath  given, 
And  by  his  sweeping  sword  their  cohorts  driven, 

Shall  roll  in  one  deep  bleeding  pile  of  dead. 

Their  corpses  heap'd  upon  the  battle  field, 
No  friend  the  rites  of  sepulture  shall  yield; 

There  they  shall  rot,  and  welter  in  the  sun: 
The  worm  shall  be  their  covering,  and  their  shroud 
The  stench,  that  rises  in  a  tainted  cloud — 

Like  rivers,  from  the  hills  their  blood  shall  run. 

And  all  the  host  of  heaven  shall  waste  away, 
A  sooty  steam  shall  dim  the  light  of  day, 

And  darkness  brood  o'er  all  with  raven  wing; 
The  Sun,  the  Moon,  the  Stars  away  shall  roll, 
The  skies  convolving  like  a  folding  scroll, 

And  there  unmingled  Night  her  veil  shall  fling. 

The  hosts  of  heaven  shall  from  their  centres  rush, 
And  all  their  frame,  in  one  tremendous  crush, 

With  trailing  flames  to  earth  its  arches  bend; 
As  when  the  vine's  sere  foliage  falling  plays, 
And  ripe  figs  drop  in  autumn's  lonely  days, 

So  shall  those  countless  worlds  of  light  descend. 


103 

5  The  purple  of  their  crime  has  fill'd  the  sky, 
And  stain'd  it  with  a  deep,  a  guilty  die; 

And  there  Jehovah  bathes  his  burning  sword: 
High  o'er  Chaldea's  land  that  falchion  waves, 
A  people  doom'd  and  destinM  to  their  graves; 

It  falls — urg'd  onward  by  the  avenging  Lord. 

6  It  falls — and  every  soul  a  victim  dies; 

In  mangled  heaps  their  welt'ring  corpses  rise, 
The  King,  the  Prince,  the  servant,  all  are  gone: 

That  sword,  with  slaughter  wearied,  drips  in  gore; 

With  clots  and  hair  and  brains  bespatter'd  o'er, 
It  rests — the  work  of  vengeance  now  is  done. 

Scar'd  by  the  terrors  of  the  Conqueror's  eye, 
Like  sheep  and  goats,  a  timorous  flock,  they  fly; 

The  sword  behind  them  thirsts  and  flashes  still: 
It  longs  on  all  their  carcases  to  feed, 
And  as  the  palpitating  victims  bleed, 

From  the  warm  stream  of  life  to  drink  its  1ill. 

7-8  Armies  and  peasants,  camps  and  cities,  all 
Doom'd  to  one  spreading  desolation,  fall, 

Like  bulls  and  lambs  before  the  lion  driven: 
The  soak'd  earth  steams  a  hot  and  feverish  cloud, 
The  gore-fed  weeds   their   crumbling  bones    in- 

shroud — 
Come  near,  and  see  the  wrath , of  injur'd  heaven. 


104 

9  'Tis  silent,  lonely,  desolate — a  land 

Of  molten  rocks,  of  white  and  dazzling  sand, 

Where  stifling  vapours  fill  the  poison'd  air; 
With  pitchy  slime  its  sluggish  rivers  flow, 
And  lava  torrents  heave  and  boil  and  glow; 
Bitumen  burns,  and  sulphur  flashes  there. 

10  The  quenchless  fire  shall  redden  thro'  the  night, 
And  send  aloft,  by  day,  a  smoky  light, 

And  rolling  clouds  in  heavy  folds  ascend; 
From  age  to  age,  the  traveller,  on  his  path, 
Shuddering  shall  see  that  wasted  land  of  wrath, 

And  back  with  fearful  steps  his  journey  bend. 

Ruin  is  on  that  city  of  renown; 

Her  towers  and  battlements  have  thunder'd  down, 

The  engine  of  the  Lord  hath  laid  them  low: 
The  busy  hum  of  trade,  the  slave's  employ, 
The  warrior's  echoed  shout,  the  glee  of  joy 

Are  hush'd  in  that  eternal  overthrow. 

11-12  The  trumpet  shall  in  vain  to  battle  sound, 
No  armed  host  shall  proudly  throng  around 

Their  captains;  all  their  pomp  and  power  is  gone: 
The  courts  and  chambers,  to  the  Arab's  tread, 
Ring,  like  the  vaulted  caverns  of  the  dead, 

And  silence  sits  upon  the  Monarch's  throne. 

And  there  the  Pelican  shall  build  her  nest, 
And  feed  her  young  ones  from  her  bleeding  breast, 
And  by  the  bittern's  boom  the  hush  be  broke; 


105 

The  Owlet  sit  and  mourn  in  every  tower, 
And  when  the  day  is  dark,  and  tempests  lower, 
The  Raven  in  sepulchral  omens  croak. 

On  every  tumbling  wall,  and  mould'ring  shrine 
The  Lord,  the  unerring  Lord,  shall  stretch  his  line, 

And  in  eternal  ruin  thou  shalt  lie; 
Sure,  as  the  plummet  settles  to  the  ground, 
Thy  courts  shall  echo,  with  an  empty  sound, 

To  the  scar'd  wanderer,  as  he  hurries  by. 

13  And  thorns  shall  choke  the  palace  of  her  kings, 
The  bramble  and  the  nettle  twine  their  stings, 

And  mantle  o'er  her  bulwarks  and  her  walls; 
The  lurking  lizard  there  shall  dwell  and  breed, 
The  Ostrich  on  the  tall,  rank  grass  shall  feed, 

That  rustling  waves  in  her  deserted  halls. 

14  In  the  dark  watches  of  the  lonely  night, 
In  one  infernal  chorus  shall  unite 

The  Wild-cat's  yell,  the  gaunt  Hyena's  howl; 
The  Baboon  to  his  fellow  Baboon  cry, 
The  wild  blast  of  the  desert  whistling  by 

Ring  with  the  harpy  screaming  of  the  Owl. 

15  There  shall  the  viper  nestle,  and  shall  lay 
Her  filmy  eggs,  and  there  her  young  shall  play ; 

There  she  shall  coil,  and  watch  beneath  the  shade, 
And  on  the  traveller  darting,  fix  her  sting ; — - 
And  there  the  vulture  fold  his  sooty  wing, 

Beside  his  mate  in  sordid  slumber  laid. 


106 

16-17  Go,  read  the  fatal  volume  of  the  Lord; 
Go,  listen  to  his  sure,  unerring  word: 

"  Thou,  Babylon,  shalt  rise  in  glory — never; 
But  I  will  sweep  my  besom  over  thee, 
And  all  thy  pomp  shall  fade,  and  thou  shalt  be 

A  desolation  and  a  hiss  forever." 


HYMNS. 
I. 

TRUST  IN  GOD. 

THOU  art,  0  Lord  !  my  only  trust, 
When  friends  are  mingled  with  the  dust. 

And  all  my  loves  are  gone; 
When  earth  has  nothing  to  bestow, 
And  every  flower  is  dead  below,, 

I  look  to  thee  alone. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave,  in  doubt  and  fear, 
The  humble  soul,  who  loves  to  hear 

The  lessons  of  thy  word; 
When  foes  around  us  thickly  press, 
And  all  is  danger  and  distress, 

There's  safety  in  the  Lord. 


107 

The  bosom  friend  may  sleep  below 
The  churchyard  turf,  and  we  may  go 

To  close  a  lov'd  one's  eyes; 
They  will  not  always  slumber  there, 
We  see  a  world  more  bright  and  fair, 

A  home  beyond  the  skies. 

And  we  may  feel  the  bitter  dart, 
Most  keenly  rankling  in  the  heart. 

By  some  dark  ingrate  driven; 
In  us  revenge  can  never  burn, 
We  pity,  pardon ;  then  we  turn, 

And  rest  our  souls  in  heaven. 

'Tis  thou,  O  Lord!  who  shield'st  my  head, 
And  draw'st  thy  curtains  round  my  bed, 

I  sleep  secure  in  thee; 
And  O  !  may  soon  that  time  arive, 
When  we  before  thy  face  shall  live 

Through  all  eternity. 


II. 
RELIGION. 

SWEET  and  soul-composing  Star 
Twinkling  in  the  heavens  afar — 


108 

Who,  through  being's  lonely  night, 
Guid'st  me  with  unerring  light, 
And  though  clouds  awhile  may  roll 
O'er  thy  brightness  and  my  soul, 
Soon  the  vapour  flits  away, 
And  the  world  again  is  day. 

Thou,  with  pure  consoling  beam, 
Shin'st  on  life's  unquiet  stream, 
And  thy  ray  of  beauty  guides 
O'er  the  dark  and  tossing  tides, 
Rising  with  a  smiling  form 
From  the  bosom  of  the  storm, 
Till  the  gloom  and  tempest  past. 
Safe  we  reach  thy  home  at  last. 

When  I  weep  in  grief  alone, 
Every  fond  endearment  flown, 
When  the  gay  world  has  no  power 
In  this  dark  and  lonely  hour — 
Still  thy  calm  and  lovely  beam, 
Bright,  as  morning  on  a  stream, 
Drops  a  light  upon  my  breast 
Hushing  every  pulse  to  rest. 

Life  is  poor  and  faint  below; 
Never  can  its  joy  bestow 
Pleasure  on  the  pure  in  heart, 
They  pursue  a  better  part: 


109 

O'er  this  dark  and  turbid  sea 
Hastening  onward  after  thee, 
Staid  by  calms,  by  tempests  driven, 
.Ml  their  hope,  their  aim  is  heaven. 


III. 


The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  shew- 
eth  his  handy  work.1' 

IN  wisdom  God  hath  made  the  world, 
And  still  upholds  its  wondrous  frame; 

The  planets  in  their  orbits  whirl'd, 

Roll  round  their  endless  path  the  same: 

The  same  unchanging  laws  control 
The  Suns,  that  sparkle  in  the  skies, 

The  waves,  that  now  in  calmness  roll, 
And  now  in  wildest  tempest  rise: 

The  winds  obey  his  word  and  go, 

Where'er  his  mandate  sends  them  forth; 

They  now  in  balmy  zephyrs  flow, 
Now  whistle  from  the  icy  North: 

The  rain  descends,  the  fields  are  green, 
And  smile  to  catch  the  falling  showers; 
10 


no 

The  clouds  are  gone,  and  earth  is  seen 
To  mourn  in  summer's  scorching  hours: 

Lightnings  await  his  voice,  and  fly 
On  wings  of  flame  athwart  the  storm; 

Whose  midnight  volume  rolling  by 
Lifts,  like  a  tower,  its  giant  form: 

The  spring  is  but  his  smile  of  love, 
The  tempest  but  his  angry  frown; 

His  music  charms  us  in  the  grove, 
And  then  he  pours  his  torrents  down: 

The  dew,  the  rain,  the  frost,  the  snow, 
And  night,  and  day,  his  power  proclaim; 

And  all  their  varying  changes  show, 

The  hand  that  guides  them,  still  the  same. 


IV. 


"  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them,  not,  for 
of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 

THERE  is  an  infant,  pillow'd  sweetly, 

Asleep  upon  its  mother's  breast; 
A  cloak  is  wrapp'd  around  it  neatly, 

And  it  is  smiling  in  its  rest; 


in 

A  halo  seems  to  hover  o'er  it, 

An  emanation  of  the  skies; 
And  the  glad  heart  of  her,  who  bore  it, 

Reads  peace  around  its  sleeping  eyes. 

The  emblem  of  angelic  spirits, 

Who  live  beyond  the  arching  blue, 
Where  every  stainless  soul  inherits 

Delight,  eternal  ages  through; 
The  same  pure  light  around  it  flowing, 

The  same  soft  smile  is  imag'd  there, 
The  same  bright,  burning  heart  is  glowing, 

As  in  the  forms  divinely  fair. 

To  all,  who  reach  the1  gate  of  heaven, 

And  o'er  its  starry  threshold  go, 
A  heart  as  pure,  as  soft  is  given, 

It  burns  with  holy  feeling  so; 
With  love  unstain'd  their  eye  is  beaming, 

Love  for  their  God  and  all  he  made; 
Such,  deem  I,  is  the  infant  dreaming, 

Upon  its  tender  pillow  laid. 

Be  like  the  infant — pure,  unspotted, 

As  fountains  bubbling  from  their  spring — 
Before  the  sheet  of  life  is  blotted, 

Or  Peace,  the  dove,  has  taken  wing; 
Be  like  the  infant — soft  and  tender, 

As  flowers  that  just  begin  to  blow; 
And  God  will  be  your  kind  defender, 

Where'er  you  rest,  where'er  you  go. 


112 

V. 
HOLY  DYING. 

CALM  is  the  parting  hour, 

When  death  with  sovereign  power 

Throws  o'er  the  righteous  soul  his  heavy  chain; 
Nor  doubt,  nor  dread  attend, 
While  round  him  lov'd  ones  bend; 

But  peace  celestial,  mocks  the  body's  pain. 

He  sees  the  links  of  earth 

Part;  and  his  final  birth 
To  perfect  holiness,  with  raptur'd  eye: 

Behind  a  vale  of  tears, 

In  cloud  and  shade  appears; 
Before,  the  Heaven-bright  fields  of  promise  lie. 

His  friends  hang  round  and  weep, 

Wrhile,  like  an  infant's  sleep, 
The  chilling  lethargy  of  death  steals  on; 

And  o'er  his  eye  the  glaze 

Falls,  and  the  spirit's  blaze 
Flashes  for  once,  and  all  of  earth  is  done. 

How  silent,  like  the  breath 

Of  morning,  was  that  death; 

Xo  agony,  nor  torturing  thought  was  tbere: 


113 

And  what  a  holy  smile 
Plays  round  those  lips  the  while, 
And  how,  like  heaven's  own  arch,  that  brow  is  fair. 

O  !  may  my  footsteps  tread 

This  path,  by  virtue  led, 
And  God's  own  day-star,  till  1  sink  in  dust; 

And  when  I  lay  me  down 

To  sleep,  O  !  may  the  crown 
Shine  on  my  eye,  that  circles  round  the  just. 


S.  M. 
A.  M.  FISHER. 

I. 

WE  ask  no  flowers  to  deck  thy  tomb; 
Thy  name,  in  purer  light,  shall  bloom, 
When  every  flower  of  earth  is  dead, 
And  all,  that  bloom  below,  are  fled. 

To  thee,  the  light  of  mind  was  given, 
The  centre  of  thy  soul  was  heaven; 
In  early  youth,  the  spirit  came, 
And  wrapp'd  thee  in  its  wings  of  flame. 

The  lambent  light,  that  round  thee  flow'd, 
Rose  to  its  high  and  bright  abode, 
10* 


114 

And  bore  thy  restless  eye  afar, 
To  read  the  fate  of  sun  and  star. 

Fain  would  we  think  the  chain  is  broke. 
That  bound  thy  spirit  to  its  yoke; 
That  now  no  mist  of  earth  can  blind 
Thy  bright,  thy  pure,  and  perfect  mind. 

Thy  grave  is  on  a  foreign  strand, 
Thy  tomb  is  in  a  distant  land, 
No  kinsman  came,  no  friend  was  near, 
To  close  thine  eye,  and  deck  thy  bier. 

But  friends  will  gather  round  thy  tomb, 
And  long  lament  thy  early  doom, 
And  thither  science  oft  repair, 
To  plant  her  choicest  laurels  there. 


II. 

THE  brightest  blossom  soonest  dies, 
The  purest  dew  will  early  rise 

To  mingle  with  the  viewless  air; 
The  fairest  rose  will  soon  decay, 
The  softest  beauty  pass  away, 

And  all  be  dark  and  lonely  there. 


T15 

The  brightest  souls  are  soonest  gone, 
The  proudest  race  is  quickest  won, 

And  Genius  finds,  in  youth,  a  grare; 
The  hand,  that  sent  it  from  above, 
Recalls  it  in  its  fondest  love, 

And  takes  the  choicest  gift  it  gave. 

Mind  cannot  linger  long  below, 
And  keep  unstain'd  its  virgin  snow; 

Earth  will  assert  its  base  control: 
Happy  the  life,  that  soon  is  o'er — 
Pain  ne'er  can  bow  the  spirit  more, 

No  force  can  crush  the  tender  soul. 

A  few  short  years,  but,  oh!  how  bright, 
With  pure,  serene  and  mellow  light, 

No  hour,  no  moment  spent  in  vain. 
Better,  than  base  eternity, 
To  live  these  transient  years,  like  thee, 

In  light,  and  die  without  a  stain. 


CARMEN  SECULARE. 

INTO  the  gulf  of  past  eternity 

Another  year,  in  all  its  pride,  has  roll'd, 
And  soon  its  brightest  pageantry  shall  be 

Lost  in  the  long- forgotten  days  of  old ; 


116 

Oblivion  draws  around  its  darkest  fold 

To  hide  the  pomp,  that  millions  gaz'd  upon; 

The  curfew  of  departed  joys  has  toll'd, 
Another  circle  in  our  life  is  run, 
And  nearer  draws  the  goal,  where  all  of  earth  is  won. 

A  year  has  ended — let  the  good  man  pause. 

And  think,  for  he  can  think,  of  all  its  crime, 
And  toil,  and  suffering.     Nature  has  her  laws, 

That  will  not  brook  infringement;  in  all  time, 
All  circumstance,  all  state,  in  every  clime, 

She  holds  aloft  the  same  avenging  sword; 
And  sitting  on  her  boundless  throne  sublime, 

The  vials  of  her  wrath,  with  justice  stor'd, 
Shall,  in  her  own  good  hour,  on  all  that's  ill  be  pour'd. 

And  Kings,  who  hug  themselves  in  sordid  ease, 
And  revel  in  their  vassals'  blood  and  tears, 

Who  grasp  at  all  can  sense  or  passion  please, 

And  build  their  strength  on  others'  wants  and  fears; 

For  them,  the  heap'd  up  vengeance  of  long  years, 
Pois'd  like  a  snow-cliff  on  a  mountain's  brow, 

Wild  as  the  sounding  avalanche  careers, 
Or  oceans  rushing  in  their  stormy  flow, 
Shall  bury  all  their  power  in  one  wide  overthrow. 

Revenge  may  hold  her  breath  awhile,  but  still 
The  spirit  boils  within,  and  soon  will  burst, 

Like  lavas  from  their  vaults — the  long-check'd  will 
Breaks  out  with  deeper  fury,  fed  and  nurst 


117 

By  ever-growing  outrage,  till  the  worst 
And  reddest  scourge  of  tyranny  unbinds 

The  rusted  links  of  cent'ries,  which,  long  curs'd 
But  dreaded,  now  the  vassal  rends,  and  finds 
At  once  his  gall'd  limbs  free  and  chainless  as  the  winds. 

Sov'reigns  may  band  in  holy  leagues,  and  lock 

Their  fetters  on  a  continent,  which  springs 
To  claim  its  birth  right — they  may  coldly  mock 

The  strivings  of  young  Liberty,  as  things, 
That  are  to  them  but  toys  to  play  with — Kings 

Have  long  enough  made  men  their  play — the  hour 
When  wrath  shall  wake,  and  triumph  clap  her  wings 

Over  the  broken  images  of  power, 

Draws  nigh,  and  they,  who  rear  the  haught  crest,  soon 
will  cower. 

The  dawning  year  beheld  a  nation  rise, 
Free  in  a  glorious  seeming — but  it  fell — 

Where  was  the  Roman  fire  ?     Italian  skies 
Shone  over  them  as  purely;  and  the  swell 

Of  that  wide  gulf,  where  ancient  glories  dwell, 
RolPd  with  as  bright  a  tint  on  Baias's  coast — 

Though  Rome's  dark  ruins  frown'd,  as  by  a  spell, 
At  once  before  the  German's  hireling  host, 
They  sunk,  and,  in  one  hour,  forgot  their  proudest 
boast. 

They  sunk,  but  yet  in  nobler  souls  lives  still 
A  feeling,  fetters,  swords,  can  never  quell: 


118 

Brute  force  may  crush  the  heart,  but  cannot  kill; 

The  mind,  that  thinks,  no  terrors  can  compel,  . 
But  it  will  speak  at  length,  and  boldly  tell 

The  world  its  weakness  and  its  rights;  the  night, 
Our  race  so  long  has  grop'd  through,  since  man  fell 

From  his  imagin'd  Eden  of  delight, 

Must,  will  ere  long  retire  from  Truth's  fast-dawning 
light. 

For  Mind  has  dar'd  assert  its  native  claim, 
And  bigot  rage,  and  superstitious  dread, 

And  priesthood,  rob'd  in  purple,  cannot  tame 
Its  strong  up-risings.     Power,  with  hydra  head, 

On  vice,  and  self,  as  on  a  Lerne,  fed, 

Awhile  may  bind  the  nations  to  its  car — 

In  thousand  hearts  a  Hercules  is  bred, 
The  fearless  champion  of  a  coming  war, 
When  Liberty,  at  last,  shall  break  her  dungeon  bar, 

And,  in  the  vigor  of  her  youth,  go  forth, 
Unshackled  and  undaunted,  and  shall  call, 

With  the  clear  summons  of  her  trump,  the  North 
To  send  its  nerv'd  sons  on  to  scale  the  wall, 

Whereon  the  Cross  and  Crescent  shadow  all, 
That  cradled  glory  in  the  olden  time; 

And  sack  the  Czar's  firm  bulwarks,  wherein  stall 
Slavery,  and  beastly  ignorance,  and  crime, 
And  sense,  that  drags  its  folds  in  pleasure's  foulest  slime. 


119 

And  on  the  sea,  whose  bright  green  waves  should  roil, 
Without  the  stain  of  innocent  blood,  nor  bear 

The  burden  of  rank  avarice  to  the  goal, 

Where  toil  and  stripes  await  it;  where  thieves  dare 

Their  darkest  deeds  of  rapine,  she  will  there 
Ride  in  her  car  of  vengeance,  and  proclaim 

To  every  plunderer,  be  it  they  who  bear 
The  ocean's  lord,  or  dogs  unknown  to  fame, 
That  her  strong  arm  shall  soon  their  blood-drunk 
boasting  tame. 

Go  forth,  ye  navies,  o'er  the  ocean  go, 
Where  havoc  riots  on  the  pirate's  deck, 

Where  steals  along  the  cowering  bark  of  woe, 
And  bid  those  dens  of  torture  float  a  wreck; 

And  as  you  first  the  Invincible  did  check, 
So  let  him  feel  the  force  of  nature's  sway — 

Would  they  might  rouse,  who  worship  at  the  beck 
Of  Europe's  would-be  lord,  and  rend  away 
The  veil,  that  hides  from  Greece  the  glories  of  that 
day, 

Of  which  all  hearts  are  proud,  the  brightest  hour 
In  all  the  round  of  ages,  which  will  stand 

A  monument  of  light,  the  sacred  dower 
Of  never-dying  truth — the  tyrant's  hand 

Awhile  may  dim  the  glories  of  that  land, 
And  doom  it  to  be  trampled  on,  but  still 

There  we  shall  image  out  the  Spartan  band, 
There  we  shall  gaze  on  Freedom's  holy  hill, 
And  from  her  kindling  founts,  the  cup,  that  fires  us,  fill. 


120 

Where  sleeps  the  tire,  that  erst  in  Pylae  burn'd? 

Where  lurks  the  spirit  of  that  godlike  age? 
Shall  the  bright  soul  forever  rest  ihurn'd? 

Is  there  no  hand  to  check  the  Tartar's  rage? 
Shall  Turk  on  light,  and  love,  and  freedom  wage 

A  war,  that  swept  whole  nations  like  a  flame? 
Shall  Europe  never  in  that  cause  engage, 

And  wipe,  from  off  her  shores,  that  blot  and  shame? — 

Her  feeblest  arm  might  now  the  glutted  vulture  tame. 

But  shall  we  mourn,  because  those  fanes  are  low, 

Where  Gods  were  knelt  to,  and  where  lust  was  right? 
There  was  a  gladness  in  the  overthrow 

Of  Temples,  where  Religion  had  no  light; 
Ajid  though  the  Cross  still  left  the  land  in  night, 

And  bound  the  spirit  in  as  cold  a  chain, 
Yet  we  can  still  exult,  and  boldly  write, 

"  Idols,  and  idol- worshippers  again 

On  lands,  where  Truth  has  pour'd  her  light,  shatt 
never  reign." 

There  is  a  twilight  dawning  on  the  world, 

The  herald  of  a  full  and  perfect  day, 
When  Liberty's  wide  flag  shall  be  unfurl'd, 

And  kings  shall  bow  to  her  superior  sway: 
Already  she  is  on  her  august  way, 

And  marching  upward  to  her  final  goal; 
Nations  the  warning  of  her  voice  obey, 

Away  the  clouds  of  fear  and  error  roll, 

The  chain  is  broke,  that  bound  the  thrall'd  and  fet- 
ter'd  soul. 


121 

That  chain  is  oft*  a  Continent,  where  Man 
Begins  anew  his  being — where  a  course, 

Brighter  than  ever  Greek  or  Roman  ran, 

Spread  its  wide  list  before  him — from  a  source, 

tlnstain'd  and  deep,  with  strong  resistless  force, 
The  uncheck'd  wave  of  enterprize  rolls  on: 

Hope  gilds  it  o'er  with  sun  beams;  wild  raid  hoarse, 
As  storm-lash'd  oceans,  till  the  plain  is  won, 
Then  in  majestic  might  its  calm,  full  waters  run. 

Here  Liberty  shall  build  her  proudest  fane, 

Loftier  than  snow-topp'd  Ancles,  and  its  dome 
Shall  cast  a  burning  brightness  o'er  the  main, 

And  all,  who  seek  a  purer,  calmer  home, 
Shall  steer  their  bounding  barks  across  the  foam, 

And  furl  their  sails  on  Freedom's  chosen  shore- 
Here  all  that  Law  has  in  her  choicest. tome, 
And  all  the  climes  ef  Greece  and  Latium  bore, 
Nature  from  her  full  stores  around  our  hearts  shall 
pour. 

Here  shall  the  energy  of  mind  be  shown, 
In  all  its  widest  daring — nought  can  check 

The  generous  spirit,  which  away  hath  thrown 

The  yoke,  that  galls  and   curbs,  the  toys,  that  deck; 

Prescription  cannot  bow  him  at  her  beck, 

Nor  rooted  wrong  command,  nor  force  control; 

He  is  not  of  the  sordid  slaves,  who  reck 

The  statesman's  gilded  bribe,  and  stinted  dole— 
In  vain  corruption  woos  the  high,  enlighten'dsoul. 

ri 


122 

We  have  our  Sages,  who  drew  down  from  heaven. 
The  bolt  that  shivers,  and  the  light  that  warms; 

Who  steer'd  the  helm  of  state,  when  madly  driven 
Itseem'dthe  prey  of  power  and  civil  storms. 

We  have  our  heroes,  who  have  met  the  swarms 
Of  hireling  butchers — back  the  torrent  roll'd: 

Though  want  and  terror  took  their  direst  forms,' 
Proud  in  their  simple  freedom,  sternly  bold, 
They  stood  through  trying  years,  and  kept  their  last 
strong  hold. 

And  they  were  victors,  and  new  light  hath  risen 
From  them  upon  the  nations — here  they  draw 

The  energy,  that  breaks  their  feudal  prison; 

The  light,  that  guides  them,  is  our  country's  law: 

Too  strong  its  perfect  brightness — when  they  saw. 
Madden'd  they  rush'd  upon  their  lords,  and  tore 

The  sceptre  from  their  grasp — the  coward  awe 

Of  crown  and  mitre  crush'd  their  hearts  no  more — 
They  wildly  fed  the  hate,  so  long  they  fiercely  bore. 

They  turn'd  upon  each  other,  with  an  ire, 

Like  that  of  ravening  tigers,  till  their  glut 
Of  kindred  slaughter  quench'd  the  maniac  fire, 

And  then  again  their  prison-gate  was  shut — 
They  grasp'd  at  full  and  perfect  freedom,  but 

A  stronger  bar  confin'd  them,  than  before; 
Fetters  of  adamantine  steel  were  put 

Around  their  scarce  heal'd  limbs;  they  dragg'd  thro' 
gore, 

To  please  a  driver's  whim,  the  manacles,  they  wore. 


123 

Order  alone  is  freedom — We  must  bend 

Beneath  the  sanctity  of  higher  power, 
Not  transient  will,  but  laws  that  have  no  end, 

Stamp'd  and  enforced  in  being's  earliest  hour; 
Sanction'd  by  time,  they  are  the  holy  dower 

Of  ages,  which  from  darkness  rose  to  light — 
Man  first  was  fearless,  then  he  learn'd  to  cower, 

And  grop'd  thro'  superstition's  stygian  night; 

Till  Science  rose,  and  day  shone  round  him  warm  and 
bright. 

Few  are  the  clear,  strong  spirits,  who  can  bear 
To  look  on  Truth  in  her  unclouded  blaze; 

Few  are  the  high,  heroic  souls,  who  dare 
Above  the  low  pursuit  of  gain  to  raise 

Their  firm,  unbending  purpose;  few  can  gaze 
At  virtue,  on  her  pure  and  awful  throne — 

Ah!  few  can  love  the  ethereal  coin  she  pa}?s — 
But  they  must  love  it,  for  the  souls  alone, 
Who  master  self,  can  claim  our  birthright,  as  their  own. 

And  Freedom  thus,  of  old,  so  often  fell 
Before  Ambition,  when  the  herd,  that  crawls 

Within  the  crouded  haunt,  the  sordid  Hell, 
Where  luxury  and  lust  have  built  their  walls, 

.Sunk  in  each  vice,  that  deadens  and  enthrals, 
Barter'd  their  unpriz'd  liberty  for  gold — 

As  the  pure  stream  upon  the  palate  palls, 

When  wine  has  fir'd  the  senses,  so  they  sold 
The  rights,  that  prouder  hearts,  than  being,  dearer 
bold. 


124 

There  is  a  twofold  liberty  in  Man, 

The  liberty  of  knowledge  and  of  power — 

This  wanders  in  the  desert  with  the  clan, 
Or  where  aloft  the  Alpine  summits  tower. 

Limbs  knit  with  iron  cannot  stoop  or  cower, 
Hands  harden'd  by  free  toiling  cannot  bear 

The  burden  of  a  tyrant — He  might  pour 

Whole  hosts  around  them;  they  would  nobly  dare 
To  guard  their  desert  rocks,  or  die  unconquer'd  there. 

The  other  hath  its  dwelling  with  the  sage —  ' 
Where  mind  is  dark,  and  appetites  prevail, 

Where  grovels  lust,  and  brutal  passions  rage, 
The  breathings  of  her  spirit  nought  avail — 

Of  cultur'd  states  'tis  the  eternal  bale, 

That  vice  will  grow  with  wealth  and  light,  and  bow 

The  strength,  that  rear'd  the  fabric — free  hearts  quail. 
Before  that  torrent  wave,  whose  giant  flow 
Buries  a  nation's  pride  in  one  deep  overthrow. 

Cities  have  been,  and  vanish'd;  fanes  have  sunk, 
Heap'd  into  shapeless  ruin;  sands  o'erspread 

Fields,  that  were  Edens;  millions  too  have  shrunk 
To  a  few  starving  hundreds,  or  have  fled 

From  off  the  page  of  being— Now  the  dead 
Are  the  sole  habitants  of  Babylon; 

Kings,  at  whose  bidding  nations  toil'd  and  bled, 
Heroes,  who  many  a  field  of  carnage  won, 
Their  names — their  boasted  names  to  utter  death  are, 
done- 


Such  is  the  fate  of  Empire — Ashur  rose, 

Where  elder  thrones  and  prouder  warriors  stood; 
Before  the  Memphian  priest  his  precepts  chose, 

Men  reason'd  greatly  of  the  highest  good; 
Before  Troy  was,  or  Xanthus  roll'd  in  blood, 

Armies  were  ranged  in  battle's  dread  array; 
They  fought — their  glory  wither'd  in  its  bud; 

They  perish'd — with  them  ceas'd  their  tyrant  sway; 

New  wars,  new  heroes  came — their  story  pass'd  away. 

They  had  no  bard,  and  they  are  dead  to  fame; 

But  they  were  brave — were  Demigods,  and  yet 
The  spirit,  which  no  threat,  no  force  could  tame, 

Which  burn'd  the  brighter,  when  in  conflict  met, 
The  sun  of  ancient  valour  long  has  set, 

Their  deeds  are  swept  from  memory's  teeming  page — 
How  soon  the  renovated  race  forget 

The  chiefs,  who  ground  the  nations  in  their  rage — 

Some  Lord  must  rise  to  curb,  and  crush  in  every  age. 

Napoleon,  Frederic,  Charles,  and  Cromwell — these 
Swept  the  earth  with  a  besom  dipt  in  n*«r:. 

They  would  have  kings,  and  nations  bend  their  knees; 
Theirs  was  the  untam'd  thirst  of  something  higher, 

An  energy  of  hope,  that  could  not  tire, 

The  love  of  self  to  deeds  of  might  sublim'd, 

Ambition  wrought  to  habitudes  of  ire, 

Force,  reckless  force,  uncheck'd,  unbent,  untim'd, 
An  aim  to  gain  a  height,  where  power  had  never 
clirnbVL 

11* 


126 

They  sought,  they  knew  not  what — they  set  no  bound 
To  their  wide-clenching  grasp — their  longing  grew, 

As  grew  their  empire — keenly,  as  the  hound 
Catches  the  deer-track  in  the  morning  dew, 

They  snuff 'd  the  scent  of  conquest — victory  threw 
Her  laurels  at  their  feet — awhile  they  gave 

Blood  to  the  earth,  like  water — madly  flew 
Their  gore-fed  eagles. — But  the  wildest  wave 
Breaks  and  subsides  at  last — their  end  was  in  the  grave. 

iSTow  they  are  dust  and  ashes — other  swarms 
People  the  ground  they  wasted — other  men 

Rise  to  be  torn  and  toss'd  by  other  storms— 
Ambition  sleeps  a  moment  in  her  den 

To  gain  new  breath,  and  fire,  and  strength;  but  then 
She  blows  the  ember'd  coals  and  they  are  flame — 

So  it  must  be,  for  it  hath  ever  been — 

Age  rolls  on  age,  and  heroes  are  the  same — 
The  rest,  the  crowd,  the  mob,  the  warlike  hunter's 
game; 

Food  for  the  sword  and  cannon,  steps  to  climb 
Ambition's  ladder,  brutes,  who  walk  erect, 

Crouching  and  gloating  on  the  dust  and  slime, 

Where  they  would  creep  and  wallow,  if  not  chcck'd 

By  biting  wants,  that  man  to  man  connect, 
The  strong  necessity  of  care  and  toil — 

Give  them  their  own  free  scope  and  they  are  wreck'da 
For  master  souls  their  passions  will  embroil, 
And  tyranny  at  last  will  twine  them  in  its  coil. 


127 
A  PICTURE. 

THERE  is  a  fountain  of  the  purest  wave — 
It  ever  floweth  full  and  freshly  on, 
Laughing  beneath  the  fairest  light  of  heaven, 
And  chiming,  like  the  tender  voice  of  birds, 
Within  a  dewy  thicket,  when  the  morn 
Conies  forth  in  beauty,  and  the  winds  awake 
To  sip  the  moisture  in  the  lily's  bell. 

The  spring  is  hidden  in  a  silent  cave, 
The  shrine  of  darkness,  and  of  loneliness, 
And  then  it  stealeth  out  to  meet  the  sun, 
And  shine  beneath  his  brightness,  and  reveal 
The  crystal  of  its  purity,  and  play, 
In  dovelike  undulations,  with  the  airs, 
That  gently  come  and  kiss  it,  with  a  breath 
Perfum'd  among  the  roses,  tiJi  they  lend 
A  sweetness  to  the  waters,  like  the  rills, 
That  spout  from  marble  wells  in  Asian  bowers. 

And  where  it  cometh  forth  to  meet  the  light, 
The  rock  is  tapestried  in  mossy  green, 
For  ever  freshening  with  the  sprinkled  dews, 
And  always  young  in  verdure,  as  when  Spring 
Throws  her  new  mantle  o'er  the  turf,  until 
The  eye  reposes  en  it,  as  a  balm, 
That,  with  its  tender  soothings,  wins  the  heart 
To  thoughts  of  purity  and  gentleness  ; 
For  there  is  in  the  sight  of  fairy  forms, 
And  mellow  tinctures,  and  dissolving  shades, 
And  in  th«  sound  of  rustling  leaves    and  waves, 
That  murmur  into  slumber,  and  of  birds 


128 

Saluting,  with  their  cheery  notes,  the  dawn, 

And  pouring  out  the  loneliness  of  heart, 

A  rifled  mother  feels,  when  o'er  her  nest 

She  sits,  and  sees  her  young  ones  stolen  away,—- 

And  in  the  scent  of  gardens,  and  young  vines, 

And  violet  beds  along  the  meadow  brooks, 

There  is  a  sweet  attraction,  which  doth  blend 

The  spirit  with  the  life  of  outward  things^ 

And  it  partaketh  then  in  all  the  joy 

Of  Nature,  when  she  riseth  from  her  sleep, 

And  throweth  out  her  vigour  to  the  winds, 

And  boundeth  in  her  ecstacy,  as  fawns 

Leap  in  the  very  wantonness  of  heart, 

When  life  is  all  exuberance  and  fire. 

It  floweth  on  imbank'd  in  freshest  turf, 
Bending  its  margin  low  to  meet  the  clear, 
Cool  element,  and  slake  its  thirst  therein, 
And  bathe  its  roots,  like  silken  threads,  that  play 
Waving  and  streaming  with  the  current's  fall. 

Its  flow  is  over  pebbles  and  bright  sands, 
Which,  from  the  curling  waters  flashing  out, 
Inlay  the  channel  with  mosaic,  where 
The  white  flint  shines  like  pearl,  the  agate  glows 
With  playful  tints,  dovelike  or  pavonine, 
Catching  new  splendour  from  the  wave  ;  the  while 
Smooth-rounded  stones,  deep  blue  and  ebony, 
And  slaty  flakes  of  red  and  russet-brown, 
Lie  darker  in  their  brightness,  as  when  gems 
Sparkle  from  out  the  chilly  night  of  caves. 


129 

Above  it  elms  and  poplars — trees  that  love 
The  bank  of  meadow  brooks  :  those  with  their  limbs 
Light-arching  in  a  platted  canopy  ; 
These  rising  in  a  pyramid  of  boughs, 
And  glancing  with  their  many-twinkling  leaves, 
Bright  in  their  varnish'd  verdure,  when  they  drink 
The  pure  light  in  their  stillness  ;  when  at  play, 
Chequer'd  with  freshest  green  and  snowy  down. 
Beside  them  willows  droop  to  kiss  the  wave, 
That  calmly  crinkles  by  them,  and  they  dip 
Their  waving  twigs,  so  that  their  silken  leaves 
Ruffle  the  water  to  a  circling  curl, 
Widening  and  lessening  to  the  turfy  shore. 
From  out  its  bosom  islets  lift  their  tufts 
Of  alder  and  of  sedges,  where  the  wind 
Plays  through  the  pointed  blades,  and  murmuring  lulls 
The  dreamer,  who  reposes  on  the  brink, 
And  gazes  on  the  ever-changing  play 
Of  bubble  and  of  ripple,  of  light  plumes 
Moving  like  pygmy  vessels,  as  the  breath 
Of  summer  fills  their  fanlike  sail,  and  throws 
A  sudden  dimple  o'er  the  mirror'd  stream. 
Flowers  too  are  on  its  borders  ;  flags  in  blue 
Carpet  the  hollow,  roses  on  the  knoll 
Open  their  cluster'd  crimson,  cardinals 
Lilt,  on  the  shady  margin,  spikes  of  fire, 
And  one,*  whose  fealher'd  stem,  and  starry  bloom 
Of  glossy  yellow,  wafted  in  the  flow, 
Floats,  like  a  sleeping  Naiad,  on  the  wave. 

*  Ranunculus  fluitana. 


130 


THERE  is  a  calm  lagoon, 

Hid  in  the  bosom  of  a  cypress  grove ; 

Around  deep  shade,  above 

The  tropic  sun  pours  down  the  heat  of  noon. 

The  aged  fathers  of  the  forest  wave 

Their  giant  arms  athwart  the  gloom  below, 

And  as  the  winds  in  fitful  breathing  blow, 

Their  rush  is  like  the  tide's  resounding  flow, 

Or  sighs  above  a  maiden's  early  grave. 

The  long  moss  hangs  its  hair, 

In  hoary  festoons,  on  from  tree  to  tree  : 

Lianas,  twining  there, 

Ramble  around  the  forest,  wild  and  free  ; 

They  wave  their  bowering  canopy, 

Impervious  to  the  faintest  ray  of  light ; 

The  softest  dew  of  night 

Steals  never  through  its  mantling  tapestry 

With  blue  and  starry  blossoms  spangled  o'er  ; 

And  scarlet  fruits,  in  clusters  hung, 

Low  bending  shine  around  the  winding  shore, 

Brighter,  than  aught  Hesperian  gardens  bore, 

Or  Eastern  bard,  in  vine-clad  arbour,  sung. 

And  on  that  calm  lagoon 

The  water-lilies  float  ; 

Blue,  as  the  deepest  tinctur'd  sky  at  noon, 

Or  white,  as  new-fallen  mountain  snow, 

Or  died  in  carmine,  like  the  stain 

Of  clouds,  that  on  the  verge  of  morning  glow. 

Or  golden,  as  the  setting  beam, 


131 

When  flashing  on  the  burnish'd  stream, 
Or  veil'd  in  mellow  tinctures,  like  the  flow 
Of  milk  and  wine  dissolving,  or  the  plain 
Of  ether,  when  its  starry  bow 
O'erspans  the  arch  of  midnight,  as  a  belt, 
Or  like  the  pearl  and  topaz,  when  they  melt 
Their  soft  reflections  in  the  folded  chain, 
Around  the  fairest  neck  of  beauty  hung — 
So  sit  they  calmly  in  their  cups,  or  swung 
Along  the  surface  of  the  rippling  wave, 
Whether  the  spirits  of  the  air  awake, 
And  sport,  with  glancing  pinions,  on  the  lake, 
Or  slumber  in  their  silent  cave. 


ALL  live  and  move  to  the  poetic  eye — 

The  winds  have  voices,  and  the  stars  of  night 

Are  spirits  thron'd  in  brightness,  keeping  watch 

O'er  earth  and  its  inhabitants  ;  the  clouds, 

That  gird  the  sun  with  glory,  are  a  train, 

In  panoply  of  gold  around  him  set, 

To  guard  his  morning  and  his  evening  throne. 

The  elements  are  instruments,  employ 'd 

By  unseen  hands,  to  work  their  sovereign  will. 

They  do  their  bidding — when  the  storm  goes  forth, 

'Tis  but  the  thunderer's  car,  whereon  he  rides, 

Aloft  in  triumph,  o'er  our  prostrate  heads. 

Us  roar  is  but  the  rumbling  of  his  wheels, 

Its  flashes  are  his  arrows,  and  the  folds, 

That  curl  and  heave  upon  the  warring  winds, 

The  dust,  that  rolls  beneath  his  coursers'  feet. 


132 

i  SAW,  on  the  top  of  a  mountain  high, 
A  gem  that  shone  like  fire  by  night; 

It  seem'd  a  star,  which  had  left  the  sky, 
And  dropp'd  to  sleep  on  the  lonely  height: 

J  climb'd  the  peak,  and  I  found  it  soon 

A  lump  of  ice,  in  the  clear,  cold  moon. 

Can  you  its  hidden  sense  impart  ? 

'Twas  a  cheerful  look,  and  a  broken  heart. 


SONNET. 

AGAIN  farewell — perchance  a  last  Adieu  ! 

Our  meeting  was  in  loneliness  and  tears, 

For  life  look'd  frowning  on  my  early  years, 
And  the  bright  moments  of  my  youth  were  few — 
I  long'd  to  meet  a  bosom,  fond  and  true, 

Where  I  might  find  a  heart,  that  beat  with  mine; 

1  imag'd  out  a  beauty  all  divine, 
And  there  the  homage  of  my  soul  I  threw. 

Vain  were  those  fond  illusions — O  !  as  vain 
The  light  of  fame,  that  drew  my  spirit  on 

To  climb  with  patient  step,  the  lofty  fane, 

Whereon  the  brightest  wreath  of  mind  is  won, 

And  on  the  proudest  height  of  glory  gain 

The  twine  of  bay,  that  crowns  her  chosen  one. 


CLIO. 


BY 


JAMES   G.   PERCIVAL, 


NO.   lit 


Quae  tantae  tenuere  mora; 


G.    AND    C.    CARVILL,    NEW-YORK. 

Elliott  Sf  Palmer,  print. 

1827. 


Southern  District  of  New-  York,  ss. 

BF  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  (he  9ih  day  of  May,  in  the 
fifty- first  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States  of  Amer 
ica,  James  G.  Percival.  of  the  said  District,  hath  deposited  in  this 
office,  the  title  of  a  Book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  proprie 
tor,  in  the  words  following,  to  wit  : 

"  Clio.     By  James  G  Percival.     No.  IN. 
Quse  tantae  tenuere  morae." 

Jn  conformity  to  the  Act  of  ihe  Congress  of  the  United  States, 
entitled,  "An  Art  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing 
the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and  books  to  the  authors  and  proprie 
tors  of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned  ;'  And 
also,  to  an  Act  entitled,  "  An  Art,  supplementary  to  an  Act,  entitled 
An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  lea»ning,  by  securing  the  copies  of 
maps,  charts,  and  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such 
copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned,  and  extending  the 
benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving  ,  and  etching 
historical  and  other  prints." 

JAMES  DILL, 
Clerk  of  the  Southern  District  of  New-York. 


PREFACE. 


AFTER  an  interval  of  four  years,  I  have  pre*- 
pared  a  third  number  of  Clio.  Like  the  two  for 
mer  numbers,  it  is  partly  made  up  of  articles  be 
fore  published  in  a  scattered  form.  Some  un 
published  articles  are  added,  and  among  others, 
one  of  some  length,  near  the  opening  of  the  vo 
lume.  Whatever  favour  the  articles  already 
published  may  have  found  with  the  public,  I  trust 
will  not  be  denied  them  in  this  collection.  The 
rest  of  the  volume  must  be  its  own  advocate. 


CLIO. 


SONNET. 

WHY  have  ye  lingered  on  your  way  so  long, 
Bright  visions,  who  were  wont  to  hear  my  call. 

And  with  the  harmony  of  dance  and  song 
Keep  round  my  dreaming  couch  a  festival  ? 

Where  are  ye  gone,  with  all  your  eyes  of  light, 
And  where  the  flowery  voice  I  loved  to  hear, 

When,  through  the  silent  watches  of  the  night, 
Ye  whispered  like  an  angel  in  my  ear  ? 

0  !  fly  not  with  the  rapid  wing  of  time, 
But  with  your  ancient  votary  kindly  stay  ; 

And  while  the  loftier  dreams,  that  rose  sublime 
In  years  of  higher  hope,  have  flown  away  : 

0  !  with  the  colours  of  a  softer  clime, 
Give  your  last  touches  to  the  dying  day. 
1* 


GENIUS  SLUMBERING. 

HE  sleeps,  forgetful  of  his  once  bright  fame ; 

He  has  no  feeling  of  the  glory  gone  ; 
He  has  no  eye  to  catch  the  mounting  flame, 

That  once  in  transport  drew  his  spirit  on ; 
He  lies  in  dull  oblivious  dreams,  nor  cares 
Who  the  wreathed  laurel  bears. 

And  yet  not  all  forgotten  sleeps  he  there  ; 

There  are  who  still  remember  how  he  bore 
Upward  his  daring  pinions,  'till  the  air 

Seemed  living  with  the  crown  of  light  he  wore ; 
There  are  who,  now  his  early  sun  has  set, 
Nor  can,  nor  will  forget. 

He  sleeps, — and  yet  around  the  sightless  eye, 
And  the  pressed  lip,  a  darkened  glory  plays ! 

Though  the  high  powers  in  dull  oblivion  lie, 
There  hovers  still  the  light  of  other  days  ; 

Deep  in  that  soul  a  spirit,  not  of  earth. 

Still  struggles  for  its  birth. 

He  will  not  sleep  for  ever,  but  will  rise 

Fresh  to  more  daring  labours — now,  even  now, 

As  the  close  shrouding  mist  of  morning  flies, 
The  gathered  slumber  leaves  his  lifted  brow ; 


From  his  half-opened  eye,  in  fuller  beams, 
His  wakened  spirit  streams. 

Yes,  he  will  break  his  sleep — the  spell  is  gon 
The  deadly  charm  departed — see  him  fling 

Proudly  his  fetters  by,  and  hurry  on, 

Keen  as  the  famished  eagle  darts  her  wing ; 

The  goal  is  still  before  him,  and  the  prize 

Still  woos  his  eager  eyes. 


He  rushes  forth  to  conquer — shall  they  take, 
They,  who  with  feebler  pace  still  kept  their  way, 

When  he  forgot  the  contest — shall  they  take, 
Now  he  renews  the  race,  the  victor's  bay  1 

Still  let  them  strive — when  he  collects  his  might, 

He  will  assert  his  right. 

The  spirit  cannot  always  sleep  in  dust, 
Whose  essence  is  ethereal — they  may  try 

To  darken  and  degrade  it — it  may  rust 
Dimly  awhile,  but  cannot  wholly  die  ; 

And  when  it  wakens,  it  will  send  its  fire 

Intenser  forth  and  higher. 


GREECE  FROM  MOUNT  HELICON. 

THIS  is  the  land  of  song — the  very  mountains 

Are  vocal  with  invisible  minstrelsy  ; 

The  valleys  are  the  haunt  of  unseen  choirs  ; 

The  fountains  utter  music,  and  the  hills 

Are  full  of  pleasant  sounds.     Before  me  stands 

The  temple  of  the  Muses,  Helicon, 

The  seat  of  their  divinity,  when  Greece 

Stood  fair  and  glorious.     It  is  beautiful, 

But  lonely.     Where  are  now  the  hallowed  shrines.. 

The  pillared  porches,  and  the  sun-gilt  domes, 

Where  ancient  Genius  offered  up  his  prayers, 

And  kindled,  on  the  altar  of  his  God, 

A  sacrifice,  whose  odour  was  divine, 

And  breathed  of  inspiration  ? — fallen,  broken, 

And  overgrown  with  natural  wildness,  like 

The  intellect  that  wanders  round  these  ruins, 

With  all  its  brightness  veiled. 

Now,  I  have  come 

On  a  fond  poet's  pilgrimage  ;  my  foot, 
Wearied,  yet  eager  still,  shall  find  its  way 
Upward  to  yonder  pinnacle  of  rock, 
The  mountain's  sacred  summit,  by  the  side 
Of  clear  Termessus,  where  it  throws  itself, 
From  leap  to  leap,  over  the  polished  stones. 
And  with  a  sportive  wildness  hurries  on 


To  this  secluded  nook  of  bays  and  roses, 
This  quiet  shelter,  where  the  dove  of  peace 
Nestles  securely,  while  the  distant  roar 
Of  violence  comes  from  the  open  plains, 
Echoed,  but  faintly. 

Pleasant  stream,  that  erst 
Gave  water  to  the  shepherd  in  old  times, 
When  from  their  cloudy  dwelling  they  descended, 
Memory's  bright  daughters,  in  the  silent  night, 
Breathing  sweet  voices,  through  the  slumbering  air, 
Into  his  dreaming  ear,  and  told  to  him 
Mysteries,  which  he  revealed  in  harmonies 
Of  measured  sounds,  high  oracles  that  made 
The  crowd  his  worshippers,  and  drew  around 
The  woodmen  from  their  caves,  to  learn  of  him 
Kindness  and  love — clear  rolling  stream,  whose  wave 
Shines  in  this  gladdening  sun,  like  flowing  gold 
Poured  from  a  fretted  urn,  so  smooth  the  rocks 
That  border  thee,  and  so  fantastical 
Their  time-worn  hollows — how  it  gushes  out 
From  some  obscure  recess,  where  it  lay  hidden 
In  clustered  vines  and  feathery  foliage,  wet 
With  ever-falling  dews  !  and  how  it  bulges 
In  silvery  brightness  o'er  the  polished  boss 
Of  marble,  veined  like  pictures  from  the  hand 
Of  tasteful  art,  and  yet  the  very  sport 
Of  frolic  nature  !  what  a  busy  din 
Of  tinkling  water-falls  !  and  how  it  blends 
With  the  low  murmur  of  the  shaken  leaves. 


10 


And  the  still  hum  of  bees  !  These  many  sounds, 
These  murmuring  melodies  of  many  voices, 
They  lap  me  in  oblivion,  and  I  seem 
Living  in  dreams.     I  wonder  not  the  bards 
Who  gathered  here  in  worship,  and  were  filled 
With  the  dim  feeling  of  religious  awe, — 
That  they  imagined,  on  the  shores  of  Lethe, 
Such  murmurs  from  the  beds  of  amaranth  flowers, 
When  they  went  nodding  to  the  odorous  winds, 
That  stole  from  laurel  groves  and  myrtle  shades, 
And  crisped  the  waters,  as  they  glided  on 
Over  their  sands  of  gold.     Such  happiness, 
As  now  I  feel  in  listening  to  thy  music, 
And  gazing  on  thy  sparkling  water-falls, 
Thy  bubbling  wells,  thy  mossy  cinctured  lakes, 
And  rose-crowned  islands,  where  the  bird  and  bee 
Nestle  and  find  their  home — such  happiness 
Elysium  well  might  envy.     But  I  pause, 
Even  on  the  threshold,  when  the  far  ascent 
Calls  me  to  regions  where  a  loftier  power 
Dwelt  on  his  airy  throne. 

Then  be  my  guide, 

Wandering  Termessus,  upward  through  thy  vale, 
And  let  me  find,  beneath  the  twisted  boughs 
Of  these  old  evergreens,  coolness  and  shade, 
To  make  my  toil  the  easier.     Darkly  rolls 
Thy  current  under  them,  and  hollower  sounds 
Thy  hidden  roar.     I  just  can  catch  a  glimpse 
Of  yon  deep  pool — dark  and  mysterious, 


11 


Sunk  in  its  well  of  rock ;  and  now  from  out 

A  tuft  of  seeded  fern  I  see  thee  plunge, 

Tinted  with  golden  green,  for  there  a  sunbeam 

Strays  through  thy  arch  of  shade.     Still  as  I  climb 

Thy  voice  goes  with  me,  like  the  labourer's  song, 

To  cheer  me  ;   and  anon  I  see  thee  flashing 

Through  the  laburnum  thickets,  rivalling 

Their  golden  flowers  ;   and  then  thou  rushest  by 

Crested  with  foam,  the  whiter  for  the  darkness 

That  covers  thee  ;  and  then  I  pause  and  hang 

Over  a  broad  smooth  mirror,  where  the  sky 

Looks  in,  and  sees  itself,  as  purely  blue, 

As  vast  and  round,  and  all  its  cloudy  folds ; 

Their  snowy  bosses  and  their  iris  fringes 

Are  there,  and  all  the  circling  rocks  repeat 

Their  lights  and  shadows  in  that  vacancy, 

So  clear,  it  seems  but  air.     Thou  rollest  on 

Thus  brightly,  and  for  ages  thou  hast  kept 

This  ever-varying,  yet  eternal  way  ; 

And  like  the  voice  of  a  divinity 

Thou  pourest  thy  endless  song.     But  now  the  rocks 

That  hemmed  thee  in  recede,  and  round  and  fair, 

The  open  vale  of  Aganippe  smiles 

To  greet  me,  as  a  fond  and  gentle  mistress 

Welcomes  her  weary  lover,  when  he  comes 

At  evening  to  her  bower. 

Enchanted  vale ! 

Well  did  the  early  worshippers  of  song 
Choose  thee  to  be  their  place  of  pilgrimage, 


That  in  thy  quiet  groves  and  still  recesses 

They  might  invoke,  with  due  solemnity, 

The  boon-inspiring  power.     Here  they  would  come, 

From  the  blue  islands,  and  the  olive  groves 

Of  Thebes  and  Athens,  and  thy  laurel-crowned 

And  golden  banks,  Alpheus,  and  the  shores 

Of  far  Ionia,  where  the  wooing  air 

Pants  with  a  softer  breath  through  myrtle  groves. 

And  thee,  thou  emerald  gem,  amid  the  foam 

Of  ocean,  whence  thy  guardian  goddess  rose, 

To  be  the  world's  delight.     From  every  land, 

That  heard  the  echo  of  those  flowing  sounds, 

That  dropping  honey,  which,  from  eloquent  lips, 

Distilled  persuasion,  reverently  they  came, 

Clad  in  white  robes,  and  crowned  with  wreaths  of  bay, 

And  bearing  golden  harps  and  ivory  citterns, 

And  round  the  marble  temple,  and  the  fountain 

Of  soft  and  gentle  harmony,  uplifted 

The  joyous  paean,  through  the  bright-eyed  day 

Singing,  till  sunset  threw  its  yellow  veil 

Round  thy  blue  summit,  Helicon,  and  Night 

Sat  on  her  purple  cloud,  and  dipped  her  bough 

Of  cypress  in  Nepenthe,  and  then  waved, 

Over  their  leafy  beds,  oblivion 

And  holy  dreams — and  when  their  God  arose, 

And  shook  his  yellow  locks  in  the  blue  air, 

And  dropped  his  shining  dews,  then  they  began 

Anew  their  solemn  chaunt,  and  up  the  heights 

They  moved  in  measured  march,  bearing  their  hynms 


To  Hippocrene,  and  the  crowning  rocks, 
Whence  they  beheld  Parnassus,  white  and  bare, 
Glittering  among  the  clouds,  a  golden  throne 
Rich  with  a  waste  of  gems  ;  and  as  it  rose, 
Touched  with  the  sun's  first  blaze,  its  forked  peak 
Seemed  like  twin  spires  of  flame,  curling  and  trembling 
From  earth  to  heaven.     They  saw — and  then  they  bowed 
And  worshipped  in  their  hearts — their  voices  paused, 
Their  harps  were  mute,  and  fearful  silence  told, 
More  eloquent  than  words,  their  love  and  awe. 

'Twas  thus  of  old — now  all  is  desolate, 
But  fair  and  lovely.     'Tis  a  wilderness 
Of  bush  and  flower,  and  over  it  are  hung 
A  few  old  knotted  oaks  and  untrimmed  bays, 
That,  in  their  careless  dress,  are  like  the  hearts 
Of  this  rude  land — beautiful  thoughts  run  wild — 
Courage  and  tenderness,  concealed  beneath 
Ungovernable  rage  and  stern  revenge. 

Here  is  a  ruin — once  a  temple,  now 
Fallen,  shapeless,  and  o'ergrown — a  mingled  pile 
Of  blocks  and  broken  pillars,  fretted  ceilings 
And  sculptured  friezes,  moulded  cornices, 
And  wreaths  and  garlands,  heaped  confusedly, 
And  veiled  with  clematis  and  ivy,  where, 
tinder  their  verdurous  tufts,  the  lizard  lurks, 
And  serpents  cast  their  coats,  or  in  the  sun 
Lie  basking  in  their  burnished  mail,  and  roll 
Their  fascinating  eyes.     There  is  a  hum 
Of  settling  bees,  and  the  quick  swallow  darts 
2 


14 


Between  two  columns,  sole  amid  the  wreck 

Unbroken,  with  their  brief  entablature 

Telling  in  scattered  characters,  half  worn 

And  eaten  out  by  time,  here  was  the  temple 

Of  Psean  and  the  Muses.     But  the  fountain, 

Where  wells  it  1  It  has  gathered  in  a  marsh 

Overgrown  with  rustling  reeds  and  water  lilies, 

And  bordered  round  with  tamarisks  and  osiers, 

The  favourite  haunt  of  painted  flies  and  reptiles 

That  love  the  mid-day  sun ;  and  here  I  trace  it, 

Oozing  through  tall  rank  grass  and  irises 

From  underneath  a  falling  arch.     Here  flowed 

The  gentle  fountain — here  they  built  a  shrine 

To  its  peculiar  Naiad,  where  it  threw 

Its  bubbling  waters  from  the  opening  rocks, 

In  shade  and  coolness.     Still  it  gushes  over 

Through  tangled  leaves,  and  still  it  gives  a  murmur, 

That  soothes  and  yet  inspires.     Methinks  I  see, 

Peeping  from  bosky  dells,  the  nymphs  who  loved 

This  sylvan  hollow.     Grecian  girls  are  they, 

With  braided  locks  twined  gracefully  around 

Their  ivory  foreheads,  and  their  arching  brows 

Pencilled  above  such  eyes,  gems,  living  gems, 

Dark  as  deep  night,  and  wild  yet  winning  quick 

And  darting  like  a  flame  ;  and  now  and  then, 

Less  timidly,  they  lean  from  their  retreats  ; 

And  then  such  lips,  cheeks,  dimples,  necks  Jike  swans. 

And  polished  arms,  colours  so  bright  and  clear, 

Still  dripping  from  their  fountains,  glancing  still 


15 


With  water-drops — they  seem  to  beckon  me. 

Only  to  smile  and  vanish.     Happy  days, 

When  ye  were  seen  as  real,  worshipped  too 

With  dance  and  song — worshipped  by  youths  and  maidens 

Only  less  bright  and  fair  than  deities, 

Full  of  high  health  and  buoyant  happiness, 

Creatures  of  poetry  and  love.     Ye  ages  ! 

Why  have  ye  borne  us  downward,  till  the  blood 

Flows  stagnant,  like  this  fountain,  from  its  well, 

Mid  weeds  and  thorns  ?  Or  has  it  ever  been 

Thus  with  the  dreamer,  Man — ever  in  love 

With  an  imagined  joy  ? 

But  what  is  here, 

Perched  on  the  hill-side  ?  Here  a  chapel  stands, 
Built  of  the  fragments  of  the  Muses'  shrine, 
And  with  its  humble  cross  and  rude  stone  altar, 
Telling  of  other  faith  and  lowlier  worship 
Than  that  of  old.     Here  are  no  genial  banquets, 
No  songs  nor  dances.     Here  the  lonely  hermit 
Utters  his  feeble  orisons,  and  chaunts 
His  one  unvaried  hymn.     A  shadowy  elm 
O'erhangs  his  cell ;  and  here  upon  the  turf, 
Half  slumbering,  half  awake,  I  muse  away 
The  hours  of  noon.     The  mountain  tops  around 
Sparkle  and  glow — a  quivering  vapour  floats 
Above  them,  and  with  strange  mysterious  power 
Lifts  them  to  loftier  regions,  where  they  hang 
Like  hot  and  fiery  clouds.     How  still  the  air — 
How  motionless  the  leaves !     The  onlv  sound 


16 


Is  the  perpetual  hum  of  water  flies 

Above  the  reedy  pool.     My  brain  feels  dim, 

And  slumber  steals  apace,  and  silently 

I  sink  in  deep  oblivion.     Still  my  fancy 

Plays  with  the  shapes  before  my  half-shut  eyes. 

And  tunes  the  falling  murmur  in  my  ears 

To  music — so  I  pass  away  in  dreams 

The  sultry  hours  ;  and  now  the  sun  descending 

Behind  the  loftier  summits,  I  awake, 

And  feel  the  breezy  coolness  steal  around  me, 

And  give  me  life  and  joy.     I  turn  myself 

To  the  fresh  evening  air,  and  let  it  dry 

My  feverish  brow  and  dripping  locks,  and  twine  them 

In  artless  curls — then  to  my  pleasant  task, 

And  onward  to  the  summit. 

Now  my  way 

Is  by  a  gentler  stream,  that  tinkles  down 
Over  the  smooth-worn  marbles,  hollowed  out 
In  semblances  of  urns,  and  bowls,  and  lavers ; 
And  then  in  open  pipes  lapsing  away, 
Clear  as  a  gush  of  flowing  pearls,  and  tinged 
With  shifting  colours,  as  it  catches  hues 
From  the  stained  rock  it  kisses,  purple,  green, 
And  golden — hues  that  emulate  the  dove's 
Or  trembling  opal's — soft  and  velvet  hues 
Due  to  the  water  mosses,  silent  growth 
Of  centuries,  o'er  which  the  hurrying  wave 
Slides  with  a  stiller  murmur.     Now  the  mountain, 
Lifted  above  the  forest  region,  glows 


17 


With  flowering  shrubs,  that  scatter  odorous  airs, 
Sweet  as  from  Eden — purple  heath  and  balm, 
And  lurking  beds  of  thyme,  and  bright  laburnum, 
And  arbute  hung  with  snowy  flowers  and  fruits 
Red  as  a  flammant's  wing,  and  spiry  grass, 
Breathing  of  early  May,  and  calling  up 
Memories  of  pastoral  days,  of  shepherds  lulled 
By  whispering  elms,  and  nymphs  with  flowing  hair, 
Tressing  it  in  the  fountains,  bleating  flocks 
Calling  their  truant  lambs,  and  browsing  goats 
Pendant  from  bushy  rocks,  and  harmonies 
Of  pipes,  and  flutes,  and  voices,  warbling  out 
Unstudied  songs,  and  with  alternate  verse 
Singing  the  sun  to  setting,  while  cool  airs 
Came  from  the  west,  as  if  Favonius  loved 
Their  minstrelsy,  and  with  the  tuneful  leaves 
Went  dallying,  and  woke  the  slumbering  pool 
To  music  faint  but  sweet.     Such  thoughts  are  wakened 
By  the  low  whispering  of  the  evening  wind, 
Through  tufts  of  flowering  grass  and  withered  halm, 
The  golden  harvest  of  an  earlier  year, 
Still  in  this  happy  climate  undecayed, 
Still  nodding  with  its  ears.     And  as  I  move 
Thoughtfully  on,  how  populous  these  flowers 
With  honey-bees  !  how  still  their  humming  sounds 
O'er  all  the  voiceless  mountain,  while  they  gather 
Nectar  from  golden  cups,  and  urns  of  pearl, 
And  homelier  vases  hidden  in  their  beds 
Of  heath  and  thyme,  vases  that  breathe  perfume, 
2* 


18 


And  lurking  yet  reveal  their  hiding-place, 

As  if  by  clouds  of  incense.      There  they  dart 

From  bloom  to  bloom,  and  till  the  lengthening  shadows 

Fall  from  the  mountain  peaks,  and  stretch  away 

O'er  vale  and  plain,  and  distant  cottages, 

Tell  of  their  evening  fires,  they  ply  their  task, 

And  then  go  murmuring  to  their  sheltered  hives 

In  cave,  or  hollow  trunk,  or  straw-roofed  shed, 

O'er  which  the  ivy  climbs.     Thus  whiled  away, 

Time  flies  apace,  till  suddenly  I  pause, 

And  greet  the  higher  fountain,  whence  uprose 

The  flying  steed,  that  bore  to  loftier  heights 

The  young  aspiring  soul.     It  gushes  forth, 

Sparkling,  and  bright,  and  clear,  from  out  the  clefts 

Of  living  rocks,  and  throws  at  once  a  stream 

Full  and  o'erflowing.     How  the  settling  light 

Tinges  it  with  its  hues,  rich,  golden  hues, 

As  if  the  God  of  Song  still  loved  spring, 

And  smiled  as  he  withdrew !     No  broken  arch 

Chokes  up  its  way,  but  from  its  natural  caves 

At  once  it  bursts  to  light,  and  hurrying  takes 

Its  journey  to  the  plain.     Here  all  is  left 

Simple  and  void  of  art,  but  where  the  rock 

Is  graved  with  moss-grown  characters,  that  tell 

Of  earlier  pilgrims,  when  they  came  and  paid 

Yows  from  the  heart.     Above  me  swells  a  throne 

Of  broad  bare  rock,  and  there  Apollo  sat, 

With  all  his  train  of  muses,  and  indulged 

The  charm  of  thought.     Here  many  a  poet  dreamed. 


10 


When  night  was  full  of  stars,  that  heavenly  voices 
Came  from  that  shadowy  summit,  and  they  told 
The  bliss  of  song.     They  kindly  led  him  on, 
Spite  of  a  scornful  world,  and  filled  his  heart 
With  self-approving  joy.     Now,  as  the  sun 
Bends  to  his  ocean  couch,  and  well  has  neared 
The  far  blue  mountains,  round  his  holiest  shrine 
In  Delphi,  upward  to  that  pinnacle 
My  foot  must  hasten.     Let  no  wandering  look 
Turn  from  the  one  bright  goal.     Even  as  the  pilgrim 
Goes  with  his  eye  fixed  on  his  prophet's  tomb, 
Or  where  his  god  is  laid,  so  let  me  on 
Bent  to  that  summit,  where  retiring  day 
Kindles  its  latest  fires. 

I  now  have  conquered, 
And  heaven  is  all  above  me.     Earth  below 
Spreads  infinite,  and  rolls  its  mountain  waves 
Tumultuously  around  me.     Breathless  awe 
Broods  o'er  my  spirit,  and  I  stand  awhile 
Rapt  and  absorbed.     The  magic  vision  floats 
Dimly  before  me,  and  uncertain  lights 
Flash  on  my  troubled  eye,  and  then  a  calm, 
High  and  uplifted,  like  the  peace  of  heaven, 
Steals  on  my  heart,  and  instantly  my  thoughts 
Are  fixed  and  daring.     'Tis  the  land  of  song, — 
The  home  of  heroes.    0  !  ye  boundless  plains, 
Ye  snowy  peaks,  ye  dusky  mountains,  heaped 
Like  ocean  billows,  far  retiring  vales, 
Blue  seas,  and  gleaming  bays,  and  islands  set 


Like  gems  in  gold — to  you  I  kneel  with  awe 

Deep  and  unfeigned.     If  I  have  ever  felt 

The  stirring  energies  of  warlike  virtue, 

The  sternness  of  unbending  right,  the  bliss 

Of  high  and  holy  dreams,  the  charm  of  beauty, 

The  power  of  verse  and  song — only  to  you 

Be  all  the  praise.     And  now  ye  are  before  me, 

Rich  with  the  tints  of  evening.     What  an  arch 

Of  golden  light  swells,  from  the  point  of  setting, 

Over  the  Delphian  hills  !  and  how  it  rolls, 

In  dazzling  waves,  round  all  the  mingled  heights 

That  rise  between !     Yonder  my  eye  can  catch 

Glimpses  from  out  the  far  Achaian  gulf, 

Waving  with  flame,  and  seeming  through  the  depths^ 

That  dimly  open  to  them,  fiery  portals 

To  brighter  worlds.     But  now  to  calmer  scenes, 

And  shadier  skies.     I  trace  the  silver  stream 

Threading  its  way,  now  hidden,  now  revealed, 

To  the  round  vale,  half  up  the  mountain  side, 

Then  lost  in  woods,  and  then  in  distant  windings 

Stealing  along  the  plain.     Yon  lower  ridge 

Lies  dark  in  shade  ;  and  hidden  half  in  trees, 

The  white-washed  convent,  with  its  gilded  cross 

And  humble  tower,  sends  upward  through  the  hushed 

And  vacant  air  its  vesper  knoll,  by  distance 

Mellowed  to  music.     This  is  all  the  sound 

That  tells  of  life.     Down  through  a  gloomy  gorge, 

Willed  in  by  rifted  rocks,  the  vale  of  Ascra 

Lies,  like  a  nook  withdrawn  beyond  the  reach 


21 


Of  violence,  and  yet  the  crescent  crowns 

A  minaret,  and  tells  a  startling  tale 

Of  wo  and  fear.     Beyond,  the  Theban  plain 

Stretches  to  airy  distance,  till  it  seems 

Lifted  in  air — green  cornfields,  olive  groves 

Blue  as  their  heaven,  and  lakes,  and  winding  rivers, 

And  towns  whose  white  walls  catch  the  amber  light. 

That  burns,  then  dies  away,  and  leaves  them  pale 

And  glimmering,  while  a  floating  vapour  spreads 

From  marsh  and  stream,  till  all  is  like  a  sea, 

Rolling  to  (Eta,  and  the  Eubean  chain, 

Stretching  in  purple  dimness,  on  the  verge 

Of  this  unclouded  heaven.     Far  in  the  East 

The  Egean  twinkles,  and  its  thousand  isles 

Hover  in  mist,  and  round  the  dun  horizon 

Are  many  floating  visions,  clouds,  or  peaks, 

Tinted  with  rose.     Before  me  lies  a  land, 

Hallowed  with  a  peculiar  sanctity, 

The  eye  of  Greece — a  wild  of  rocks  and  hills, 

Lifted  in  shadowy  cones,  and  deep  between 

Mysterious  hollows,  once  the  proud  abodes 

Of  Genius  and  of  Power.     Now  twilight  throws 

Around  her  softest  veil,  a  purple  haze 

Investing  all  at  hand,  and  farther  on 

Skiey,  and  faint,  and  dim.    Methinks  I  catch, 

Through  the  far  opening  heights,  the  Parthenon, 

And  all  its  circling  glories.     Salamis 

Lies  on  its  dusky  wave  ;  and  farther  out 

Islands  and  capes,  and  many  a  flitting  sail 


22 


White  as  a  sea-bird's  wing.     The  stars  are  out, 
And  all  beneath  is  dark.     The  lower  hills 
Float  in  obscurity,  and  plain  and  sea 
Are  blended  in  one  haze.     Cyllene  still 
Bears  on  her  snowy  crown  the  rosy  blush 
Of  twilight ;  and  thy  loftier  head,  Parnassus, 
Has  not  yet  lost  the  glory  and  the  blaze 
That  suit  the  heaven  of  song.     There  let  me  pause 
There  fix  my  latest  look.     How  beautiful, 
Sublimely  beautiful,  thou  hoverest 
High  in  the  vacant  air !     Thou  seemest  uplifted 
From  all  of  earth,  and  like  an  island  floating 
Away  in  heaven.     How  pure  the  eternal  snows 
That  crown  thee  !  yet  how  rich  the  golden  blaze 
That  flashes  from  thy  peak !  how  like  the  rose, 
The  virgin  rose,  the  tints  that  fade  below, 
Till  all  is  sweetly  pale  !     Are  there  not  harps 
Warbling  above  thee  ?  voices,  too,  attuned 
To  an  unearthly  song  ?  Methinks  I  hear  them 
Breathing  around  me,  with  a  charm  and  spell, 
That  melt  my  heart  to  weeping.     It  is  sad, 
That  song  of  heaven, — the  funeral  symphony 
Of  ancient  worthies,  for  the  murdered  peace 
And  glory  of  their  land.     They  greet  the  heroes, 
Who  rise  to  meet  them  in  these   iron  times, 
And  hail  them  as  their  sons  ;  and  yet  they  weep 
Their  unavailing  toil.     Is  there  no  hand 
To  grasp  the  avenging  sword,  and  tear  the  knife 
From  the  assassin  1  Must  these  generous  hearts 


Pour  out  their  blood  like  water,  till  the  flood 
Of  rage  and  power  has  swept  them  from  the  earth, 
And  buried  all  their  bright  and  hallowed  land 
In  death  and  darkness  1   0  !  forbid  it,  nations 
Who  bear  the  name  of  Christians,  and  are  proud 
Of  light,  and  truth,  and  mercy.     Arm  ye  ;  take 
The  cross  and  sword ;   move  to  the  war  of  death 
Stern  and  devoted  ;   pause  not,  till  the  Turk 
Has  lost  the  power  to  harm — then  give  to  Greece 
Her  ancient  liberty,  and  ye  shall  live 
Immortal,  in  your  fame. 


THE    PARTHENON. 

THIS  rock  was  once  the  seat  of  pomp  and  power  ; 

Here  rest  the  chiefs  of  olden  time, 

And  here  the  orator  sublime 
Shed  on  their  willing  ears  his  golden  shower. 

Here  stood  their  temple  in  its  beauty's  blaze, 
When  like  a  thing  of  light  it  rose, 
And  proudly  on  their  dazzled  foes 

So  brightly  beamed,  it  quelled  their  daring  gaze. 

Here  stood  Minerva  with  her  guardian  shield, 

And  from  her  threatening  lance 

Shot  such  a  lightning  glance, 
None  dared  to  try  the  heaven-protected  field. 


Here  Genius,  Glory,  Piety,  were  shrined, 

And  hence  that  Spirit  flew, 

Whose  wing  has  hurried  through 
The  darkened  world,  and  fired  the  inglorious  mind. 


THE    SUNIAN  PALLAS. 

BY  Sunium's  rock  I  took  my  way 

Along  the  blue  Egean  sea, 
That  bright  in  golden  sunset  lay 

Round  the  fair  islands  of  the  free  : 
A  form  of  more  than  mortal  mould 

On  the  high  rock  sublimely  rose  ; 
The  bosses  of  her  buckler  rolled 

Like  eyes  of  lightning  on  her  foes 
I  looked — the  blue-eyed  goddess  there 
Stood  glorious  in  the  evening  air. 

She  stood  and  raised  her  brazen  lance, 

That  glittered  like  a  meteor's  beam  ; 
Its  light  below  in  quivering  dance 

Flashed  gaily  on  the  ocean  stream  : 
Round  her  tall  casque  her  plumy  crest 

Shook  with  a  terrible  sign  of  power, 
And  the  grim  jEgis  on  her  breast 

Told  to  the  Turk  his  destined  hour : 
She  spake — and  like  the  rush  of  flame, 
Her  voice  in  awful  murmurs  came. 


25 


"  Sons — worthy  of  your  warrior  sires  ! 

Yours  is  the  cause  of  earth  and  heaven ; 
Shame  to  the  heart  that  faints  or  tires, 

Till  the  last  sacrifice  is  given : 
Go  fearlessly  along  your  path — 

It  mounts  to  liberty  and  fame  ; 
Go — with  an  unrelenting  wrath, 

And  conquer  till  the  Turk  is  tame  : 
Wl  en  the  red  fires  of  battle  glare, 
Remember— I  am  with  ye  there. 

These  rocks  that  rise  so  rudely  round, 

Were  consecrate  to  me  of  old  ; 
Here  the  Athenian  sternly  bound, 

For  rapid  fight,  his  mantle's  fold  : 
He  saw  the  Persian  tents  below ; 

They  filled  and  blackened  all  the  plain : 
He  rushed — and  like  a  torrent's  flow, 

Swept  them,  and  hurled  them  to  the  main 
This  was  the  wrath  that  made  him  free, 
The  fearless  wrath  of  Liberty. 

What  if  a  cold  and  coward  world 
Leave  ye  to  work  your  way  alone  ; 

Be  the  new  banner  never  furled 
Till  Liberty  is  all  our  own. 

Tell  them  we  ask  no  other  aid, 

Than  our  own  hearts  in  such  a  cause  ; 
3 


No — none  but  Freemen's  hands  were  made 

To  fight  and  win  for  equal  laws. 
Go — with  a  firm  confiding  breast — 
Go — fight,  and  win  the  conqueror's  rest." 


THE  GREEK  MOUNTAINEERS. 

Now  bind  in  myrtle  wreaths  the  avenging  sword, 
Like  him,  who  at  the  Panathenian  games, 
With  the  bold  heart,  no  tyrant  quells  nor  tames, 
The  bosom  of  the  proud  Usurper  gored — 
We  have  a  sterner  foe  to  wake  our  wrath, — 
Centuries  of  darkness  have  not  dimmed  us  quite,- 
We  have  the  heart  to  feel,  the  hand  to  smite — 
Wo  to  the  wretch  who  dares  to  cross  our  path  ! 
Our  souls  are  gathered  to  the  effort — free 
We  have  been,  and  we  will  be,  and  our  sires 
Shall  look  from  heaven,  and  see  us  light  the  fires 
On  thy  eternal  altars,  Liberty  ! 
Though  the  proud  fanes  of  ancient  glory  lie 
Crushed  by  the  hand  of  havoc  and  of  time, 
Still  tower,  with  front  as  lofty  and  sublime, 
Yon  hoary  peaks,  the  pillars  of  the  sky. 
There  lived  the  Suliote  free,  when  all  below 
Bowed  to  the  Ottoman — the  Mainote  there 
Wandered  as  wildly  as  his  mountain  air, 
And  dealt  at  will  his  vengeance  on  his  foe. 


These  are  thy  temples,  Liberty  ! — these  heights 
Nursed  the  first  hardy  Dorian  in  his  cave  ; 
And  there,  when  Sparta  sank,  the  free  and  brave 
Hung  on  the  unconquered  rocks  their  beacon  lights. 
There  stood  thy  altars,  and  the  eternal  flame 
Burns  round  the  cloudy  summits,  with  a  glow 
As  bright  as  when  it  cheered  the  plains  below, 
And  lit  the  sacred  band  to  death  and  fame. 
We  too  will  have  our  glory — we  will  light 
Our  torches  in  the  fire  that  never  dies ; 
And  with  a  terrible  and  solemn  rite 
Devote  us  to  our  country's  liberties. 
We  bind  our  swords  hi  myrtle,  and  we  go 
To  meet  the  proud  oppressor  on  his  way : 
Let  but  the  tyrant  sink  beneath  the  blow, 
Gladly  we  die — our  foes  can  only  slay. 
They  cannot  rob  us  of  that  wreath  of  fame, 
The  glorious  chiefs  of  ancient  Athens  bear : 
0  !  how  they  come  to  meet  us  in  the  air, 
Borne  on  their  chariots  and  steeds  of  flame. 
We  hasten  to  our  vengeance  and  we  die- 
Wide  to  the  winds  our  blood — our  lives  are  given"; 
In  the  mid  joy  of  fight  they  hurry  by, 
Seize  us,  and  bear  us  to  the  Patriot's  Heaven. 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  PATRIOT. 

ONE  last,  best  effort  now — 

They  shall  not  call  us  slaves — 
These  iron  necks  shall  never  bow 
To  barter  for  a  hated  life, 
But  we  will  tell,  in  mortal  strife, 

What  wrath  a  freeman  braves  : 
A  few  short  years,  and  we  have  known 
The  pride  and  joy — to  live  alone. 

Our  ancient  land  was  free  ; 

We  washed  its  stains  in  blood : 
Again  the  hymn  of  Liberty 
Rose  from  the  high  Athenian  shrine, 
And  virgin  hands  did  often  twine,     . 

In  the  dark  olive  wood, 
Their  garlands  for  the  youthful  brow, 
Who  taught  the  heathen  Turk  to  bow. 

These  have  been  glorious  days  : 

Let  come  what  will,  our  fame 
Is  like  the  sun's  eternal  blaze, 
And  when  they  tell  of  Marathon, 
And  all  the  fields  our  fathers  won,. 

They  too  shall  name 
Bozzaris,  and  the  few  who  died. 
Victims  of  glory,  by  his  side. 


The  world  has  told  our  doom — 

'Tis  Liberty  or  Death — 
The  tree  we  planted  must  not  bloom, 
For  Turk  and  Christian — all  unite, 
And  royal  hands  our  sentence  write, 

And  yet  our  breath, 
When  trampled  by  the  ruffian  herd, 
Shall  never  breathe  one  recreant  word. 

If  we  must  die — then  die — 

And  let  the  foul  disgrace 
Cling  to  their  names  eternally, 
Who,  when  they  had  the  power  to  save, 
Doomed  to  a  dark  and  bloody  grave 

A  high,  devoted  race  ; 
Awhile  the  sweets  of  life  to  know, 
O  God !  and  then  to  perish  so  ! 

But  Freedom  has  one  shore — 

Would  we  could  shelter  there 
The  tender  ones  we  value  more 
Than  life  or  fame— 0  !  generous  men, 
Be  with  us,  as  ye  long  have  been, 

And  we  will  share 

All  the  poor  fruit  of  toils  and  pains, 

Our  hearts—our  lives—perhaps,  our  chains- 
Come,  at  this  fatal  hour, 

Ye  last  of  high-born  souls ; 
3* 


30 


Come — when  the  crushing  weight  of  power 
Has  all  but  bent  our  necks  to  earth — 
We  will  not  shame  our  glorious  birth ; 

Nor  Turk,  nor  Hun  controls 
The  heart  that  holds  the  Spartan  fire, 
The  sacred  relic  of  his  sire. 

We  know,  ye  cannot  fear — 

We  know,  that  ye  are  brave — 
To  us — your  very  name  is  dear — 
0  !  by  that  name,  and  all  its  light, 
We  bid  ye  join  the  murderous  fight, 

To  win  and  save — 
0  !  come — if  it  be  only  time 
To  fall  with  us — in  Death  sublime. 


GRECIAN  LIBERTY. 

GLORIOUS  Vision !  who  art  thou. 

With  thy  starry  crown  of  light, 

Like  the  diadem  of  night 

On  the  .Kthiop  monarch's  brow  ? 

\nd  why  art  thou  descending 

From  thy  bright  Olympian  throne. 

And  thy  lavish  glory  lending, 

Like  the  ever-rolling  sun, 

To  the  self-devoted  band 

On  the  threshold  of  their  land '? 


31 

Few,  but  hardy  are  their  ranks, 
And  they  never  will  retire, 
Though  ten  thousand  on  their  flanks 
Hurl  a  storm  of  steel  and  fire — 
Though  an  iron  tempest  rain 
Death  and  darkness,  till  the  day 
Pass  in  dim  eclipse  away — 
Though  the  thunderbolts  of  war 
Plough  their  furrows  in  the  plain, 
And  the  echoing  mountains  bay 
To  the  tumult  from  afar. 

O  !  bright  and  glorious  creature, 
Winged,  and  mailed,  and  armed  for  fight 
Though  beautiful  in  feature, 
Like  a  spirit  of  delight, 
Yet  the  arching  of  thy  brow, 
And  thy  proud  and  gallant  form, 
Tell  of  one  who  rides  the  storm, 
When  the  sternest  warriors  bow 
And  the  bravest  yield  their  breath 
At  the  sommoning  of  Death. 
There  thou  standest  on  the  mountains, 
And  the  sparkle  of  thy  spear, 
Like  a  sunbeam  on  the  fountains 
To  the  gallant  few  below, 
Is  a  sign  of  wrath  and  fear 
To  the  blind  and  brutal  foe  ; 


32 

Like  a  beacon,  let  it  blaze 
Broad  and  flaring,  till  it  daze 
All  who  come  with  foot  profane 
To  this  consecrated  plain, 
Where  thy  pure  and  perfect  shrine 
Youths  and  maidens  loved  to  twine 
With  the  laurel  and  the  myrtle — 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  grove, 
Haunt  of  innocence  and  love, 
Heard  the  winged  arrows  hurtle 
From  the  flowery-wreathen  bow, 
With  a  whisper  like  the  flow 
Of  a  brook,  that  winds  afar 
Underneath  the  Evening  star. 

0  !  they  were  happy  days, 
When,  reposing  in  the  shade, 
Elms,  and  vines,  and  poplars  made, 
It  was  all  thy  joy  to  gaze 
On  the  races  and  the  dances, 
Twining  hands  and  burning  glances, 
Where  Passion  went  and  came, 
Like  an  arrow  tipped  with  flame. 
Though  thou  didst  often  lie 
With  a  pleased  and  placid  eye, 
As  thy  children  took  their  pleasure, 
And  the  merry  flute  and  viol 
Told,  in  light  and  airy  measure, 
All  the  joys  and  sports  of  leisure ; 


33 


Not  the  less,  to  meet  the  trial, 
Thou  wouldst  gird  thy  warlike  arms, 
And  with  bare  and  eager  blade, 
On,  through  dangers  and  alarms, 
To  the  wreath  of  Victory  wade. 
Thou  couldst  leave  thy  pleasant  woods, 
And  the  harvest  of  the  plain, 
And  along  the  torrent  floods 
To  the  frozen  mountains  climb, 
Where  they  reared  their  fronts  sublime  : 
Or  scorning  Slavery's  chain, 
Make  thy  dwelling  on  the  main. 
From  the  Dorian  rocks  and  caves, 
When  the  gorged  and  glutted  foe 
Lay  in  careless  ease  below, 
Like  an  Alpine  stream  that  raves 
When  the  autumn  rains  are  pouring, 
And  the  pines  in  mist  are  towering — 
So  thou  did'st  rush  and  sweep 
To  the  dark  remorseless  deep, 
With  thy  fury  and  thy  force, 
Shield  and  chariot,  man  and  horse, 
And  thy  sword  wrought  far  and  wide, 
Till  the  land  was  purified. 

And  now  thou  dost  awake, 
And  thy  dream  of  ages  break — 
From  the  halls  of  ice  and  snow, 
Whence  thy  classic  rivers  flow ; 


34 


From  thy  palace  in  the  clouds, 

Where  the  light  of  evening  runs 

On  the  rolling  wreath  that  shrouds 

The  last  refuge  of  thy  sons — 

Peaks,  that  never  Turk  has  trod, 

Where  the  armed  and  ardent  Klepht 

Found  his  shelter,  when  he  left, 

For  a  prey  to  wasting  fires, 

All  the  temples  of  his  God, 

And  the  dwellings  of  his  sires ; 

From  thy  caverns  in  the  rock, 

From  thy  dark  and  hidden  hold, 

Thou  hast  nerved  thee  to  the  shock, 

And  thy  warning  shout  has  rolled — 

Height  from  height  has  caught  the  sound 

And  thy  foes  in  haste  retire  ; 

Now  the  tumult  rises  higher — 

'Tis  a  nation's  cry  of  joy — 

"  None  to  ravage  and  destroy — 

Not  a  foreign  foot  is  found 

On  our  consecrated  ground." 


35 


HELLAS. 

LAND  of  Bards  and  Heroes,  hail ! 
Land  of  Gods  and  godlike-men, 

Thine  were  hearts,  that  could  not  quail- 
Earth  was  glorious  then : 

Thine  were  souls  that  dared  be  free, 

Power,  and  Fame,  and  Liberty. 

In  thy  best  and  brightest  hour, 

Thou  wert  like  the  sun  in  heaven — 

Like  the  bow  that  spans  the  shower, 
Thou  to  earth  wert  given : 

Nations  turned  to  thee  and  prayed, 

Thou  wouldst  fold  them  in  thy  shade. 

Like  the  infant  Hercules, 

Thou  didst  spring  at  once  to  power, 
With  the  energy  that  frees 

Millions  in  an  hour  : 
From  the  wave,  the  rock,  the  glen, 
Freedom  called  her  chosen  then. 

What  though  thousands  fought  with  one- 
Did  thy  sons  draw  back  in  fear  1 

No — with  jEgis  like  a  sun, 
Pallas  hovered  near : 


36 

Wisdom  with  her  diamond  shield 
Guarded  well  the  fatal  field. 

Fair  and  bright  her  temple  shone, 
Meet  for  such  divine  abode — 

There  in  majesty  alone, 
Loftily  she  trode : 

Time  in  vain  his  bolt  has  hurled ; 

Still  it  stands,  to  awe  the  world. 

Thine  were  all  that  rouse  the  spirit 
From  its  dim  and  deathly  dreams — 

0  !  shall  man  again  inherit 
Such  undying  beams : 

Lend  thy  kindling  breath  awhile  ; 

Earth  shall  then  in  glory  smile. 

Land,  where  every  vale  or  mountain 
Echoes  to  immortal  strains — 

Light  is  round  the  stream  and  fountain — 
Light,  on  all  thy  plains. 

Never  shall  thy  glory  set ; 

Thou  shalt  be  our  beacon  yet. 

Yes — for  now  thy  sons  are  calling 
To  the  tombs  that  hold  their  sires — 

One  by  one  their  chains  are  falling — 
They  have  lit  their  fires  : 

See  !  from  peak  to  peak  they  run, 

Bearing  Freedom's  signal  on. 


37 

On,  from  peak  to  peak,  they  rush ; 

Wide  and  far  the  glory  flows — 
Streams  of  light  unearthly  gush 

From  their  crown  of  snows. 
Hear  ye  not  the  warning  call  ? 
"  Shall  a  nation  rise  and  fall !" 

No !  Forbid  it,  gracious  heaven  ! 

Though  a  world  look  coldly  on ; 
Be  the  unyielding  spirit  given — 

Be  the  battle  won — 
Or  if  hope  desert  the  brave 
Be  their  land  their  common  grave  ! 

If  they  lose  the  glorious  prize, 

Be  thy  rocks  a  nation's  tomb — 
Man  shall  sink,  no  more  to  rise, 

If  they  meet  that  doom  ! 
Come,  ye  slaves  !  and  read,  and  fear- 
Freedom's  last,  best  hope  is  here  ! 


38 


ODE 

FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  AT  BUNKER  HILL, 

JUNE  17,  1825. 

WHEN  our  patriot  fathers  met 

In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
While  the  hand  of  Britain  yet 

Pressed  us  with  its  weight  of  power, 
Still  they  dared  to  tell  the  foe, 

They  were  never  made  for  slaves, — 
Still  they  bade  the  nations  know, 

They  were  free  as  ocean's  waves. 

Yonder  is  the  glorious  hill, 

Where  their  blood  was  nobly  shed — 
Never  with  a  firmer  will 

Hearts  of  freemen  beat  and  bled  : 
Shall  the  son  forget  his  sire  ? 

No — the  admiring  world  shall  see 
High  a  pillared  tomb  aspire, 

Like  a  tower  of  Liberty. 

Now  the  arch  of  empire  swells 

Proud  and  daring,  fixed  and  strong : 

While  the  hand  of  ruin  fells 

Nations  that  have  flourished  long  ; 


39 

Loftier  the  temple  springs — 
Telling  on  its  front  sublime, 

How  it  scorns  the  rage  of  kings, 
And  the  wasting  tooth  of  time. 

From  its  high  and  lifted  brow, 

See !  it  sends  a  wakening  light, 
Where  a  world  is  slumbering  now 

In  the  shades  of  eastern  night ; 
They  shall  feel  the  quickening  fire — 

Rise  and  run  to  meet  the  day, 
And  their  hearts  shall  never  tire, 

Till  their  chains  are  rent  away. 

None  shall  ever  rashly  dare 

Lift  his  hand  against  this  shrine, 
While  its  pediment  shall  bear 

Names  so  honoured  and  divine  : 
High  above  the  sacred  band, 

There  in  light  unfading  set, 
Like  twin  stars  of  glory,  stand 

WASHINGTON  and  LAFAYETTE. 


40 


ODE 

FOR    THE    FIFTIETH    ANNIVERSARY    OF    INDEPENDENCE, 

JULY  4,  1826. 

BRING  to  this  high  and  holy  rite 
A  spirit  worthy  of  our  sires — 
Still  may  their  zeal,  a  guiding  light, 
Inform  us  with  its  noblest  fires — 
This  the  day  that  saw  them  rise 
Bright,  in  glory,  to  the  skies. 

Then  came  they  forth,  a  nation  new, 

To  kindle  and  to  warn  a  world  ; 
Then  high  to  heaven  their  eagle  flew  ; 
Defiance  on  their  foe  they  hurled. 
Britons  dared  not  call  them  slaves — 
Freedom  flourished  on  their  graves. 

Be  round  us  now,  a  sacred  band  ; 

Assist  us,  at  the  shrine  ye  raised  ; 
Go  forth  to  animate  our  land, 

Bright  as  at  first  your  valour  blazed. 
Fathers—Heroes — you  we  call ; 
May  your  spirit  grace  us  all. 


41 


Look  down  from  that  sublime  abode, 
Where  now  ye  sit  in  high  repose  ; 
Fair  are  the  battle  fields  ye  trode  ; 
No  more  the  tide  of  slaughter  flows. 
Welcome,  Peace — the  boon  is  due, 
Full  and  glorious,  all  to  you. 

A  few,  an  aged  few  remain, 

Your  brethren  in  the  war  of  death ; 
Their  presence — be  it  not  in  vain — 
It  stirs  us  with  a  quickening  breath. 
Let  us  emulate  our  sires — 
Let  us  cherish  long  their  fires. 

O  !  gladly  beats  the  veteran's  heart 

To  hail  this  holiest  Jubilee  ; 
Theirs  was  the  noblest,  proudest  part, 
The  toils  that  set  a  nation  free. 

Now  those  generous  toils  are  done  ; 
Liberty  and  peace  are  won. 

The  flame  that  warmed  and  waked  their  souls, 

Burns  like  a  beacon  on  our  hills ; 
Through  all  our  favoured  land  it  rolls  ; 
Bright  is  the  heart  it  fires  and  fills. 
Still  the  watch-word  sounds — be  free  : 
Still  'tis  Death  or  Liberty. 


Then  close  this  high  and  holy  rite 

With  honour  to  the  wise  and  brave ; 
The  men  who  dared  the  field  of  fight, 
Their  hom^s  to  bless,  their  land  to  save. 
Now  to  those  who  fought  and  fell, 
Bid  the  lofty  chorus  swell* 


SEA  PICTURES. 


WIDE  to  the  wind  the  canvass  throw  ; 

The  moment  calls — away — away. 
And  let  the  full  libation  flow 

To  the  bright  sentinel  of  day  ; 
Fill  high  the  beaker  to  its  brim, 

And  freely  pour  it  in  the  sparkling  sea. 
That  the  blue-cinctured  galley  swim 

Light  as  a  bird  who  feels  its  liberty, 
And  gladdening  in  the  sun's  reviving  smile 
Floats  o'er  the  water  to  its  osier  isle. 

Now  let  the  sails  be  widely  spread 

To  catch  the  welcome  breath  of  heaven  ; 

The  light  clouds  hurry  over  head 

By  the  free  mountain  breezes  driven — 


43 


We  catch  it  now — the  enlivening  air 

Sounds  cheerily  amid  the  crackling  sails  : 

Away — away — the  wind  is  fair — 

Haste  on  to  meet  the  ever  blowing  gales, 

Where  softly  breathing  o'er  the  marble  main 

They  smooth  its  billows  to  a  liquid  plain. 

ii. 

Spread  every  sail  before  the  wind ; 

Catch  all  the  breathings  of  a  gale  so  fair : 
It  steals  upon  us  from  behind, 

Like  an  invisible  spirit,  through  the  air  : 
Wide  laughs  the  quickly  heaving  sea — 

Its  foam-wreaths  twinkle  in  the  sun  ; 
Onward  the  galley  hurries,  steadily, 

Like  the  front  horse  who  knows  the  victory  won. 
And  with  his  balanced  limbs  and  waving  mane 
Skims,  lightly  as  a  dove,  the  even  plain. 

Yonder  the  mountains  bluely  rise, 

Their  foreheads  whitened  by  the  smile  of  heaven  ; 
They  hang  like  summer  clouds  around  the  skies 

Soft  slumbering  in  the  golden  light  of  even  : 
Yon  peaks  mount  upward  from  the  Elysian  vales. 

Where  an  eternal  spring  unfolds 
Flowers  never  fading  to  her  quickening  gales, 

And  the  same  tree  in  blended  beauty  holds 
Bud,  bloom,  and  fruitage  in  its  early  down, 
Or  brightly  peering  forth  amid  its  leafy  crown. 


44 


There  live  the  blessed — a  gentle  air 

Steals  round  them  laden  with  the  breath  of  flowers ; 
All  tells  of  an  eternal  beauty  there  ; 

One  glorious  sunshine  gilds  the  amaranth  bowers  : 
No  rolling  cloud,  no  gusty  rain, 

No  light-winged  snow  come  rushing  from  the  sky, 
But  shining  dews  bedrop  the  spiky  plain, 

Oft  twinkling  as  the  sea  wind  flutters  by  ; 
There  hangs  in  middle  air  the  princely  palm, 

Swaying  its  broad  leaves  to  the  whispering  gale, 
Its  flower-tufts  drooping  low,  as  in  a  calm 

Floats  the  gay  pennon  round  the  uncertain  sail ; 
There  springing  from  the  ocean's  breast, 

Silent  and  cool,  Hesperian  breezes  rove  ; 
They  only  fan  the  happy  to  their  rest, 

And  give  a  pleasing  murmur  to  the  grove. 


in. 

Steadily  breathes  the  ever-blowing  gale  ; 

The  ship  rides  proudly  on  the  silent  sea  ; 
There's  music  in  the  bosom  of  the  sail, 

Like  the  soft  night-wind  in  a  cypress  tree  : 
Spread  smoothly  as  a  temple's  marble  floor, 

Heaves  onward  to  the  sky  the  long — long  swell 
Nothing  is  heard,  but  the  far-uttered  roar, 
Stealing  in  undulations  from  the  shore 

Like  the  low  murmur  in  a  twisted  shell. 


45 


Steadily  moves  the  ship  along  its  way, 
Sporting  its  streamers  in  the  tropic  sun, 

While  overhead  glows  a  redoubled  day, 
And  the  still  hours  in  higher  circles  run, 

Till  evening,  in  a  wreath  of  glory  drest, 

Comes  blushing  from  the  rosy  kindling  west. 

There  is  no  visible  motion  in  the  air ; 

'Tis  one  eternal  tide  for  ever  going 
On  with  the  glorious  orb  that  guides  it  there, 

Like  rivers  down  to  ocean's  hollow  flowing  : 
The  gull  wheels  round  them  on  his  balanced  wing 

Light  as  a  snow-flake  calmly  floating  by, 
Watching  with  fixed  eye,  where  with  sudden  spring 

The  blue-fin  leaps  to  catch  the  painted  fly  : 
So  deep  a  calm  broods  over  all — the  crew 

Slumber  at  mid-day  on  the  shaded  deck, 
While  the  lone  pilot  safely  steers  them  through 

Seas  that  have  rarely  borne  the  shattered  wreck  ; 
Where  the  ship  glides  upon  the  pointed  rock 
So  gently,  not  a  sleeper  feels  the  shock  ; 
Then  slowly  rocking  dips  its  plunging  prow, 
And  rushes  headlong  to  the  abyss  below. 

The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  a  calm ; 

The  sun  throned  proudly  in  a  deep  blue  sky ; 

No  mist — no  stain  to  dim  its  Tyrian  dye  ; 
T  he  air  all  living  with  a  breathing  balm 
Sent  from  the  scarlet  flower-tufts  of  the  palm 

On  the  lone  rocky  islet  lifted  high  ; 


46 


There  the  Flamingo,  like  a  thing  of  fire, 
Shoots  in  a  meteor  flight,  and  grandly  there 
Sits  the  sea-eagle  poised  in  middle  air, 

Rolling  his  red  eye  with  a  monarch's  ire. 

The  ocean  as  it  moves  along  below, 

Just  strikes  the  rock,  and  heaves  one  foaming  wave, 
Or  sends  a  hollow  murmur  through  the  cave, 

Then  softly  steals  away  in  silent  flow. 

How  high,  and  yet  how  soothing,  thus  to  sail 
Steadily  o'er  a  sheet  of  glassy  green, 

Curved  to  its  centre  like  a  verdant  vale, 

Where,  all  her  canvass  spread  to  catch  the  gale, 
The  vessel  walks  her  way  like  ocean's  queen, — 

Seeming  at  distance  through  the  crystalline  air, 
Her  bright  sails  fringed  with  each  aerial  hue, 
An  Iris  floating  on  its  ground  of  blue, 

Or  white  winged  spirit  calmly  hovering  there. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

HE  long  had  wound  his  solitary  way 
Beneath  the  branches  of  a  forest  old, 

And  by  his  tangled  path,  in  murmuring  play, 
A  little  river  down  its  waters  rolled  ; 

Now  in  a  deep  and  darkling  pool  it  lay  ; 

Then  from  the  sun  it  caught  a  touch  of  gold, 

As  through  the  lightly  opening  leaves  it  passed, 

And  gave  a  cheerful  glance  that  could  not  last, 


47 


And  so  in  long  and  silent  wandering 

He  walked  beneath  the  thick  inwoven  roof 

Of  the  long1  boughs,  and  leaves  low  whispering  ; 
And  nothing  sounded  near  him,  but  the  hoof 

Of  the  scared  deer,  that  with  a  sudden  spring 
Fled  his  approach,  and  slily  kept  aloof, 

Watching  him  with  a  dark  and  eager  eye, 

Till  he  had  passed  the  timid  creature  by. 

And  so  he  travelled  on  till  low  the  sun 

Had  sank,  and  now  looked  through  the  ancient  wood, 
And  bronzed  the  mossy  trunks,  as  one  by  one 

They  met  the  flowing  of  that  airy  flood, 
Which  seemed  on  the  cool  evening  wind  to  run, 

Till  it  flowed  o'er  the  thicket  where  he  stood, 
And  gave  to  every  shivering  leaf  and  spray 
A  flush  as  of  the  merry  morn  in  May. 

And  now  he  saw  that  he  had  well  nigh  passed 
The  weary  length  of  wilderness,  for  soon 

Between  two  poplars  slender  as  a  mast, 

The  sun  shone  broad,  as  when  he  holds  at  noon 

The  middle  sky,  and  from  behind  them  cast 
A  flash  of  light,  till  all  the  roof  was  strewn 

With  brightness,  like  a  multitude  of  stars, 

As  the  leaves  shifted  with  the  shifting  airs. 


48 


And  forth  he  went,  and  all  before  him  lay 

A  meadow  covered  thick  with  summer  flowers, 

And  through  that  glade  the  river  took  its  way, 
Now  open,  then  beneath  high  arching  bowers, 

Where  the  vine  hung  its  clusters,  and  the  bay 
Shot  through  their  purpling  tuft  its  leafy  towers  ; 

The  wind  blew  fresher  there,  and  all  the  grass 

Bent  low  its  heavy  head  to  let  it  pass. 

And  all  that  meadow  kindled  by  the  flush 
Of  the  red  sun,  who  now  behind  a  hill 

Dipped  his  broad  circle,  and  with  deepening  blush 
Each  moment  clipped  his  rosy  fulness,  till 

He  vanished  quite,  and  then  with  sudden  rush 
Wide  flashing  streams  of  glory  seemed  to  fill 

The  sky  above  him,  and  then  mounted  higher, 

'Till  half  the  heaven  was  like  a  sea  of  fire. 

And  gradually  this  glow  of  light  grew  pale, 
And  only  hung  on  the  low-lying  cloud  ; 

And  then  a  long  dark  shadow  hid  the  vale, 
And  covered  up  its  beauty,  like  a  shroud  ; 

Then  all  was  dark,  but  the  out-spreading  sail 
Of  the  lone  eagle,  where  he  circled  proud, 

Seeming  as  if  he  could  not  bid  adieu 

To  his  loved  sun,  and  so  to  meet  him  flew. 


49 


And  then  from  out  the  forest  boughs  was  heard, 
As  if  it  faintly  mourned  the  dying  day, 

The  soft  complaining  of  a  twilight  bird  ; 
And  as  the  visible  world  all  silent  lay, 

So  that  a  bush  or  thicket  hardly  stirred, 
It  floated  through  the  darkness  far  away  ; 

Then  sinking  to  a  faint  and  fainter  tone, 

It  left  the  wearied  wanderer  alone. 


THE  MYTHOLOGY  OF  GREECE. 

THERE  was  a  time,  when  the  o'erhanging  sky 
And  the  fair  earth  with  its  variety, 
Mountain  and  valley,  continent  and  sea, 
Were  not  alone  the  unmoving  things  that  lie 
Slumbering  beneath  the  sun's  unclouded  eye  ; 
But  every  fountain  had  its  spirit  then, 
That  held  communion  oft  with  holy  men, 
And  frequent  from  the  heavenward  mountain  came 
Bright  creatures,  hovering  round  on  wings  of  flame, 
And  some  mysterious  sybil  darkly  gave 
Responses  from  the  dim  and  hidden  cave  : 
Voices  were  heard  waking  the  silent  air, 
A  solemn  music  echoed  from  the  wood, 
And  often  from  the  bosom  of  the  flood 
Came  forth  a  sportive  Naiad  passing  fair, 
The  clear  drops  twinkling  in  her  braided  hair ; 
5 


50 


And  as  the  hunter  through  the  forest  strayed, 

Quick-glancing  beauty  shot  across  the  glade, 

Her  polished  arrow  levelled  on  her  bow, 

Ready  to  meet  the  fawn  or  bounding  roe  ; 

And  often  on  the  mountain  tops  the  horn 

Rang  round  the  rocky  pinnacles,  and  played, 

In  lighter  echoes,  from  the  chequered  shade, 

Where  through  the  silvery  leaves  at  early  morn 

Stole  the  slant  sunbeams,  shedding  on  the  grass 

Brightness,  that  quivered  with  the  quivering  mass 

Of  thickly  arching  foliage  ; — often  there 

Dian  and  all  her  troop  of  girls  were  seen 

Dancing  by  moonlight  on  the  dewy  green, 

When  the  cool  night-wind  through  the  forest  blew, 

And  every  leaf  in  tremulous  glances  flew ; 

And  in  the  cloudless  fields  of  upper  air, 

With  coldly  pale  and  melancholy  smile 

The  moon  looked  down  on  that  bright  spot,  the  while, 

Which  in  the  depth  of  darkness  shone  as  fair, 

As  in  lone  southern  seas  a  palmy  isle  ; 

And  when  a  hunter-boy,  who  far  away 

Had  wandered  through  the  wild-wood  from  his  home, 

Led  by  the  eagerness  of  youth  to  roam, 

Buried  in  deep  unbroken  slumber  lay, — 

Then  as  the  full  moon  poured  her  mellow  light 

Full  on  the  mossy  pillow  where  he  slept, 

One  more  than  nymph,  in  sylvan  armour  dight, 

Bent  fondly  over  him,  and  smiled,  and  wept. 

Each  lonely  spot  was  hallowed  then — the  oak 


51 


That  o'er  the  village  altar  hung,  would  tell 

Strange  hidden  things  ; — the  old  remembered  well, 

How  from  its  gloom  a  spirit  often  spoke. 

There  was  not  then  a  fountain  or  a  cave, 

But  had  its  reverend  oracle,  and  gave 

Responses  to  the  fearful  crowd,  who  came 

And  called  the  indwelling  deity  by  name. 

Then  every  snowy  peak,  that  lifted  high 

Its  shadowy  cone  to  meet  the  bending  sky, 

Stood  like  a  heaven  of  loveliness  and  light ; 

And  as  the  gilt  cloud  rolled  its  glory  by, 

Chariots  and  steeds  of  flame  stood  harnessed  there, 

And  gods  came  forth  and  seized  the  golden  reins, 

Shook  the  bright  scourge,  and  through  the  boundless  air 

Rode  over  starry  fields  and  azure  plains. 

It  was  a  beautiful  and  glorious  dream, 

Such  as  would  kindle  high  the  soul  of  song ; 

The  bard  who  struck  his  harp  to  such  a  theme, 

Gathered  new  beauty  as  he  moved  along — 

His  way  was  now  through  wilds  and  beds  of  flowers  ; 

Rough  mountains  met  him  now,  and  then  again 

Gay  valleys  hung  with  vines  in  woven  bowers 

Led  to  the  bright  waves  of  the  purple  main. 

All  seemed  one  bright  enchantment  then ; — but  now, 

Since  the  long  sought  for  goal  of  truth  is  won, 

Nature  stands  forth  unveiled  with  cloudless  brow, 

On  earth  ONE  SPIRIT  OF  LIFE,  in  heaven  ONE  SUN. 


52 


PAINTING— A  PERSONIFICATION. 

ONE  bright  sunshiny  autumn  day, 

When  the  leaves  were  just  beginning  to  fade, 

I  saw  a  gay  and  laughing  maid 

Stand  by  the  side  of  a  public  way. 

There  she  stood  erect  and  tall ; 

Her  flowery  cheek  had  caught  the  dyes 

Of  the  earliest  dawn — and,  0  !  her  eyes, 

Not  a  star  that  shoots  or  flies, 

But  those  dark  eyes  outshine  them  all. 

She  stood  with  a  long  and  slender  wand, 
With  a  tassel  of  hair  at  its  pointed  tip  ; 
And  fast  as  the  dews  from  a  forest  drip, 
When  a  summer  shower  has  bathed  the  land. 
So  quick  a  thousand  colours  came, 
Darting  along  like  shapes  of  flame, 
At  every  turn  of  her  gliding  hand. 
She  gave  a  form  to  the  bodiless  air, 
And  clear  as  a  mirrored  sheet  it  lay ; 
And  phantoms  would  come  and  pass  away, 
As  her  magical  rod  was  pointed  there. 

First  the  shape  of  a  budding  rose, 
Just  unfolding  its  tender  leaf; 


53 


Then,  all  unbound  its  virgin  zone, 
Full  in  its  pride  and  beauty  blown, 
It  heavily  hangs  like  a  nodding  sheaf ; 
And  a  cloud  of  perfume  around  it  flows. 

Then  a  mingling  of  vale  and  hill, 

Hung  around  with  a  woody  screen — 

O  !  how  alive  its  quivering  green  ; 

And  there  a  babbling  brook  is  seen 

To  turn  the  wheel  of  a  moss-grown  mill : 

There  is  a  clear  and  glassy  pool, 

And  a  boy  lies  idly  along  its  brink, 

And  he  drops  a  pebble  to  see  it  sink 

Down  in  that  depth,  so  calm  and  cool ; 

And  out  from  behind  a  bo  we  ring  tree 

There  peeps  a  maiden  crowned  with  flowers  ; 

The  two  are  innocent  paramours — 

At  her  delicate  laugh  he  turns  to  see, 

And  then  she  darts  like  a  frighted  fawn 

That  springs  away  from  the  turfy  lawn, 

And  far  in  the  tangled  thicket  cowers — 

So  she  flies  in  her  haste  to  hide 

The  blush  that  mantles  her  cheek  and  brow  ; 

Then  he  languidly  turns  his  eye  aside 

To  the  quiet  brook's  eternal  flow. 

There  you  may  see  a  warrior  horse, 
All  his  trappings  are  dropped  with  gold — 
How  his  eye  sparkles !  and,  0  !  how  bold, 
5* 


As  he  springs  away  in  his  pride  and  force. 

There  a  dark  and  keen-eyed  Moor 

Hangs  and  pulls  at  his  bridle  rein, 

But  all  his  skill  and  might  are  vain  ; 

He  prances  and  tosses — and,  hark !  away, 

Bright  as  the  flashing  steeds  of  day, 

He  has  broke  from  his  keeper,  and  flings  his  mane? 

Like  a  streaming  meteor,  over  the  plain. 

Can  you  not  see  the  creature  neigh, 

In  his  vapoury  nostrils  panting  wide, 

In  his  tossing  head  and  his  arch  of  pride, 

And  his  rapid  glance  from  side  to  side, 

As  he  stands  and  beats  the  echoing  ground 

With  quivering  tramp,  and  sudden  bound  I 

Then  with  a  tremble  in  every  limb, 

And  an  angry  snort  he  darts  away, 

And  round  in  a  circle  he  seems  to  swim, 

Or  bends  and  turns  like  a  lamb  at  play. 

What  is  that  comes  from  a  golden  cloud, 

Floating  along  in  thinnest  air — 

Was  there  ever  a  shape  so  fine  and  fair  1 

And,  0  !  what  wealth  of  sunny  hair 

Clings  around  like  a  glittering  shroud. 

See !  she  raises  a  snowy  arm, 

Pure  as  a  flake,  ere  it  leaves  the  sky. 

She  waves  it  around  with  a  grace  and  a  charm, 

And  putting  her  glossy  ringlets  by, 

Shows  to  the  sight  a  lip  and  eye. 


55 


Is  it  a  shape  of  light  and  air, 

A  vermeil  cloud,  and  a  midnight  starr 

That  meet  and  mingle  in  glory  there, 

Or  one  of  the  winged  spirits  that  fly 

Like  the  prophet  who  rose  in  his  fiery  car  ? 

No,  't  is  a  being  of  human  mould, 

Changing  with  blush,  and  tear,  and  smile, 

Such  as  the  bard  in  his  lonely  isle, 

Close  to  his  heart  would  love  to  fold. 

Back  she  throws  her  tossing  curls, 

Cheek,  and  brow,  and  neck  are  bare, 

Tenderly  crimson  and  purely  fair, 

Like  a  damask  rose  when  it  first  unfurls 

Its  feathery  bosom  to  light  and  air. 

Now  that  world  of  grace  is  calm, 

Sweeter  and  dearer,  but  not  so  bright, — 

Like  a  flower  when  it  sends  the  dew  of  night 

Back  from  its  breast  in  a  cloud  of  balm. 

See  on  her  lids  the  gathering  tear, 

Clear  as  a  star  in  the  midnight  main, 

Such  she  might  drop  on  her  mother's  bier, 

Or  shed  for  the  youth  who  has  long  been  dear, 

When  she  parts  and  never  may  meet  again. 

0  !  what  flashes  of  glory  break 

From  that  crystalline  fount  of  love  and  joy  ; 

All  her  smiles  and  glances  wake, 

And  those  opening  lips  such  music  make, 

As  rings  from  the  heart  of  the  hunter  boy, 


56 


When  he  springs  through  the  forest,  fleet  and  proud, 
And  the  startled  echoes  are  many  and  loud, 
Loud  as  the  burst  of  a  nation's  joy, 
In  the  rocks  that  girdle  the  mountain  lake. 

Now  for  the  touch  of  a  master  hand — 
See !  how  she  poises  and  waves  her  wand, 
As  if  in  a  dream  of  busy  thought 
She  sought  for  visions  and  found  them  not. 
Now  it  rises — and  look — what  power 
Springs  to  life,  as  she  lifts  her  rod — 
Is  it  a  hero,  or  visible  god, 
Or  bard  in  his  rapt  and  gifted  hour  ? 
What  a  lofty  and  glorious  brow, 
Bent  like  a  temple's  towering  arch, 
As  if  that  a  wondering  world  might  march 
To  the  altar  of  mind,  and  kneel  and  bow  ; 
And  then  what  a  deep  and  spirited  eye, 
Quick  as  a  quivering  orb  of  fire, 
Changing  and  shifting  from  love  to  ire, 
Like  the  lights  in  a  summer-evening  sky  ; 
Then  the  living  and  breathing  grace 
Sent  from  the  whole  of  that  magic  face, 
The  eloquent  play  of  his  lips,  the  smile 
Sporting  in  sunbeams  there  awhile, 
Then  with  the  throb  of  passion  pressed 
Like  a  shivering  leaf  that  cannot  rest, — 
And  still  as  a  lake  when  it  waits  a  storm, 
That  wraps  the  mountain's  giant  form, 


57 


When  they  lie  in  the  shade  of  his  awful  frown. 
And  his  gathered  brows  are  wrinkled  down. 

Such  the  visions  that  breathe  and  live, 
The  playful  touch  of  her  wand  can  give. 


MUSINGS. 

MY  spirit  was  o'erwearied  with  the  toil, 

At  which  the  heart  revolts  ;  and  dark  and  chill 

The  world  was  hushed  around  me,  and  all  life 

Lay  in  a  death-like  slumber.     I  alone 

Was  wakeful,  and  I  looked  upon  the  night 

Beautiful  in  its  cloudless  firmament, 

And  in  its  canopy  of  myriad  stars, 

Writh  such  a  sense  of  sorrow,  as  when  one 

Deeply  enamoured  gazes  on  a  form 

Shaped  to  celestial  beauty,  with  the  keen 

And  bitter  thought  that  he  can  only  gaze, 

And  love  and  worship,  but  can  never  be 

Loved  with  an  equal  passion.     It  was  dark, 

And  all  the  light,  that  looked  upon  the  earth, 

Was  in  those  glorious  creatures  which  afar 

Shone  in  their  awful  grandeur.     No  sweet  moon 

Lent  to  the  twilight  hills  a  softer  day, 

And  threw  upon  the  waving  folds  of  mist, 

Then  curling  from  the  vallev,  such  a  tint 


58 


Of  purity,  the  far-off  mountain  snow 

Is  dim  and  faint  beside  it.     It  was  still ; 

The  winds  were  silent,  and  the  forest  boughs 

Stood  hushed  without  a  motion,  and  their  leaves 

Sent  out  no  more  that  harmony  of  sounds, 

By  which  the  unseen  ministers  of  air 

Utter  their  low-tuned  voices.     All  was  mute, 

Solemnly  mute,  but  the  faint-falling  chime 

Of  a  small  rivulet,  that  stole  away, 

Buried  in  tufts  of  roses,  through  a  grove, 

That  rose  high-arching  o'er  it.     This  would  come 

At  times  upon  my  ear  with  such  sweet  sounds 

Of  clear,  yet  broken  melody,  my  soul 

Drank  in  the  quiet  rapture,  and  was  filled 

Awhile  with  a  like  sweetness,  and  I  seemed 

A  portion  of  the  pure  and  motionless  air, 

And  that  the  voices  of  invisible  forms, 

All  young  and  lovely,  were  enshrined  within 

The  compass  of  my  being,  and  myself 

Was  living  with  their  music.     Then  it  sank 

Slowly  away,  and  down  the  flowery  bank, 

That  still  sent  up  its  offerings  of  balm, 

And  filled  the  night  with  odours  wafted  far 

On  the  calm  breathings  of  the  western  gale, 

Which  now  seemed  waking,  and  at  times  would  wave 

In  a  wide  fold  the  drapery  of  my  couch, 

And  shake  the  wild  vine,  where  it  clustered  o'er 

My  half-raised  casement — down  the  flowery  bank 

Reflecting,  in  its  beads  of  dropping  dew 


59 


Hung  on  the  bending  grass,  the  many  eyes 

That  calmly  watched  in  heaven,  and  looked  on  earth, 

As  mothers  on  their  infants,  when  the  night 

Draws  near  to  its  meridian,  and  the  pale 

Fast-dying  taper  throws  its  trembling  light 

Full  on  the  innocent  slumberer,  whose  repose 

Is  happiness  ;  whose  dreams,  if  it  has  dreams, 

Are  all  in  smiles  ;  and  as  the  day  flits  by 

Light-winged,  and  without  tears,  that  are  not  pure, 

So  is  its  slumber  full  of  deep  delight, 

And  unembittered  by  the  keen  regret 

Of  past  repented  follies,  or  the  fear 

That  darkens  in  the  future — down  the  bank 

The  tinkling  of  the  water-fall  would  glide, 

And  stealing  through  its  canopy  of  flowers, 

It  then  would  seem  all  silent ; — yet  my  ear 

Followed  it,  and  I  hung  upon  its  sounds 

Still  warbling  near  in  fancy,  as  we  gaze 

Intently  on  the  lips,  that  lately  breathed 

With  a  most  tender  music,  and  still  seem 

To  listen  to  that  deep  mysterious  flow 

Of  spirit-touching  melodies  ;  and  when 

They  tremble  with  her  breath,  as  the  full  leaves 

Shake  on  the  rose,  when  the  still  air  awakes, 

And  comes  to  kiss  their  dews — oh,  then  we  hear, 

Though  all  is  silent,  such  a  strain,  the  heart 

Beats  quickly,  and  dissolves  in  tears  away. 

Thus  were  my  feelings  softened  by  the  night, 
Its  silence,  and  its  darkness,  and  the  sounds 


That  made  that  silence  deeper,  as  they  came 

Low-whispering  through  my  window,  like  the  voice 

Of  one  who  sighs  in  love,  or  as  the  breath 

Of  a  pure  spirit  on  its  ministry 

Of  comfort  to  the  wretched,  or  of  hope 

And  courage  to  the  failing.     Then  my  thoughts. 

Now  freed  from  their  dark  burden,  took  a  flight 

Into  a  fonder  region,  and  they  went 

Back  to  remembered  days,  when  summer  smiled^ 

Not  only  in  the  blue  sky,  and  the  fields 

Ripe  for  the  harvest,  but  more  sweetly  smiled 

In  my  young  heart,  and  in  its  livery  dressed 

All  forms  that  moved  around  me,  and  endowed 

The  lovely  with  a  spirit's  loveliness, 

And  made  them  so  divinely  beautiful, 

I  lived  in  beauty,  and  it  was  the  sum 

Of  all  my  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  it  threw 

Its  mantle  o'er  all  creatures,  and  it  gave 

An  all-pervading  colour  to  my  life, 

And  happiness  alone  was  centered  in 

The  contemplation  of  the  fairest  things ; 

And  whether  it  were  forms,  or  hues,  or  sounds, 

Or  looks  that  speak  the  heart,  and  shadow  out 

The  workings  of  the  faculty  within, 

Which  images  all  nature,  and  anew 

Shapes  it  to  fresh  creations  of  a  port 

More  lofty,  and  an  attitude  and  air 

More  kindred  to  its  tastes  and  tendencies — 

Whether  it  was  in  things,  that  have  no  life, 


61 


The  sports  of  Nature's  handy-work,  or  those 

Eternal  statues,  where  the  soul  of  Man 

Stands  fixed  in  immortality — in  flowers 

Or  leaves  light-dancing,  or  in  waving  woods 

Poised  in  luxuriant  majesty  aloft 

On  the  uplifted  mountain — in  the  wing, 

That  glided  through  the  yielding  element 

In  every  curve  of  gracefulness,  and  swept 

Proudly  the  deepest  bosom  of  the  air, 

And  rode  in  light  triumphant — in  the  forms, 

That  bounding  scoured  the  meadow,  tense  with  life, 

And  nerved  to  trembling  buoyancy — or  those 

Who  are  like  us  in  shape,  in  look  and  soul, 

Only  more  beautiful,  and  nicely  tuned 

To  a  far  softer  harmony : — where'er 

Nature  was  in  its  being,  there  my  eye 

Drank  nothing  in  but  BEAUTY,  and  my  thoughts 

Were  hidden  in  a  tide  of  loveliness, 

And  with  the  delicate  motion  of  young  life 

My  senses  were  one  ecstasy,  one  thrill, 

WTiich  was  not  hushed,  but  heightened  in  my  dreams. 

I  had  gone  back  through  darkly-shadowed  years, 
One  round  of  fears  and  sorrows,  and  its  long 
And  stagnant  hours,  which  seemed  for  ever  fixed 
In  one  blank  joyless  moment,  as  if  Time 
Had  grown  Rternity,  and  life  could  ne'er 
Reach  its  long  wished-for  ending— those  dark  years 
Were  passed  like  waves,  when  on  the  broken  sea 
6 


Before  the  steady  wind  the  vessel  glides 

Swift  as  a  darting  eagle,  and  my  thoughts 

Soon  centered  in  those  happy  summer  days, 

And  they  were  as  realities,  and  seemed 

Fairer  than  any  I  had  seen  before  ; 

And  in  the  deep  intensity  of  soul, 

Drawn  from  all  outward  things,  and  poised  and  bound 

In  this  one  pure  enchantment — then  I  formed 

Visions  of  Paradise,  which  to  have  known 

And  felt  one  fleeting  moment,  in  their  full 

O'erpoweriag  presence — it  is  more,  ah  more 

Than  a  whole  age  of  cold  and  heartless  years 

Spent  in  one  round  of  animal  wants  and  toils, 

With  far  less  innocence  and  true  delight, 

Than  the  keen  feelings  of  the  mother-bird 

Who  watches  in  the  thicket  o'er  her  young. 


SHE  faded,  but  in  beauty — not  a  charm 
Of  feature  or  expression  left  her  calm 
And  all-enduring  look,  that  meekly  bore 
Smiles,  as  in  happier  years  of  infancy, 
Before  her  roses  withered ;  not  a  sigh 
Escaped  her,  but  she  seemed  to  live  in  hope. 
That  kindled  by  deferring.     She  had  fed 
So  long  upon  the  higher  sympathies, 
And  had  so  purified  her  heart's  desires, 
That  ail  to  her  was  spirit ;  and  a  veil 


63 


Of  an  ethereal  tenderness  was  thrown 
O'er  all  that  once  seemed  beautiful  ;  and  thus 
She  saw  no  other  world  than  such  as  faith 
Had  promised  to  her  second  life.     No  dark 
And  bigot  frown  o'ershadowed  her  fair  brow, 
That  every  day  grew  purer,  till  it  seemed 
Wrought  of  an  angel's  essence,  and  it  rose 
Calm  as  the  cloudless  canopy  of  heaven ; 
And  through  it  came  a  light,  that  gave  to  all, 
On  whom  it  sweetly  shone,  her  peacefulness 
And  silent  hope.     Her  feelings  ever  grew 
Softer,  and  every  thing  that  had  a  sense 
Of  suffering  was  pitied,  if  the  winds 
Blew  chillier  ;  and  even  the  falling  flowers 
Were  tenderly  lamented.     She  had  been 
A  devotee  to  Nature,  and  she  felt 
Intensely  all  its  loveliness,  and  hung 
Delighted  on  its  wonders,  not  with  dumb 
And  thoughtless  ecstasy,  but  with  an  eye 
That  read  a  soul  within  them,  and  a  voice 
That  hymned  the  song  of  gratitude.     Her  eye 
Yet  stole  abroad  at  evening,  when  the  wind 
Is  silent,  and  the  landscape  all  is  still, 
And  flowers  are  folding  up  their  dewy  leaves, 
And  birds  are  going  to  their  unfledged  young 
Hid  in  the  clustered  foliage  ;  when  the  air 
Just  stirs  enough  to  rock  them  to  repose, 
And  crisp  the  surface  of  a  silent  stream, 
That  flashes  in  the  last  departing  ray, 


64 


And  circles  with  its  sheet  of  flowing  of  gold 

The  islet  tufted  with  an  iris  crown, 

And  the  bright  purple  of  the  floating  leaves, 

That  wave  along  its  current,  as  the  wind 

Sways  them  in  graceful  curves,  and  slowly  turns 

Their  ever-changing  mirrors  to  the  sun, 

Till  the  pool  glitters  with  their  glancing  light. 

She  chose  this  hour  of  worship,  and  she  knelt, 
Not  to  the  beautiful  creatures  she  beheld, 
But  to  their  COMMON  PARENT. — Though  the  world 
Might  claim  a  spirit's  awe,  it  spread  so  fair, 
So  awful  and  so  wronderful  around  ; 
And  had  such  magic  hues  upon  its  clouds, 
And  such  a  tint  of  love  upon  its  sky, 
And  such  a  blended  harmony  of  light 
And  shadow,  such  a  host  of  fairy  forms 
All  mellowed  by  the  misty  evening  air, 
And  lovelier  in  their  softness,  that  a  soul 
Fresh  from  its  fountain  might  have  worshipped  there 
Such  rare  and  countless  beauty.     There  she  bent, 
Herself  the  fairest ;  and  she  first  took  in 
With  an  intensest  pleasure,  all  the  fair 
And  wondrous  forms  around  her,  and  then  raised 
Her  eyes  in  adoration.     Then  her  brow 
Met  the  clear  sky,  that  was  alone  as  pure, 
And  her  keen  eyes,  that  gathered,  as  her  life 
Grew  weaker,  more  of  spirit,  till  they  flashed 
With  her  soul's  inward  movings — those  keen  eyes 
Looked  on  the  stars,  that  now  came  faintly  fortlx 


65 


On  their  night  watching,  and  they  seemed  to  find, 

In  those  ethereal  messengers,  their  home  ; 

And  there  was  such  an  ecstasy,  her  form 

Seemed  changed  to  something  heavenly,  and  to  rise 

As  a  dove  rises  on  a  quiet  wing, 

And  float  into  her  kindred  purity. 


SHE  was  the  first  I  loved ;  but  years  had  gone 
Since  we  had  parted.     Still  the  very  look, 
That  lent  me  such  enchantment,  that  I  seemed 
Raised  to  a  higher  being,  when  she  sat 
Sweet  in  her  mildness  by  me,  or  with  light 
And  flying  footstep  hastened  to  my  call, 
And  hung  upon  my  words  with  such  a  fond 
And  all-confiding  earnestness, — that  look 
Still  lived  in  all  its  light  before  me,  fair 
As  the  fresh  dress  of  nature  in  the  calm, 
Unclouded  beauty  of  an  April  eve, 
When  the  gay  twilight  ends,  and  in  her  full, 
The  white-robed  planet  overtops  the  hill, 
And  now  is  far  in  heaven,  and  rolls  her  way 
In  majesty  and  love,  shedding  a  wave 
Of  soothing  influences  on  them  who  sit, 
Or  walk  beneath  her  all-embracing  smile, 
To  the  wood-cinctured  mountains  in  their  groves 
Wrapped  as  in  a  dark  mantle,  to  the  hills 
6* 


66 


Swelled  to  a  sphere  of  fresh-grown  turf,  the  vales 

More  darkly  greened  and  fairer  flowered,  the  lakes 

Sheeted  in  chrystal  purity,  and  all 

The  winding  brooks  and  thread-like  rills,  that  lace 

The  soft  and  oozy  meadows,  one  calm  look, 

Silent  and  yet  expressive,  one  far  glance 

Of  peace  and  beauty  lending.     Thus  she  seemed, 

And  fairer  in  my  fancy,  and  where'er 

My  eye  roved  in  its  wandering  through  dark  shades, 

Down  close  embowered  dells,  where  brooklets  steal 

Their  steps  o'er  glossy  pebbles  and  bright  sands — 

Where'er  my  quick  eye  wandered,  she  was  still 

The  spirit  of  the  beauty  it  beheld, 

The  living  thing  that  animates  the  wild, 

The  nymph  of  the  still  waters,  and  the  woods 

Uttering  unnumbered  whisperings  of  joy 

In  their  soft-rustling  leaves,  the  Deity 

That  consecrates  the  valley  and  the  lake 

To  her  peculiar  worship, — so  her  fair 

And  tranquil  features,  and  her  sylph-like  form 

Wrought  in  a  purer  world,  and  o'er-informed 

With  the  quick  life  of  feeling, — so  she  filled 

Nature  with  her  dear  presence,  and  alone 

Adorned  the  rudest  landscape,  and  embraced 

The  desert  with  an  atmosphere  of  love, 

And  lent  my  hours  of  utter  solitude 

A  fellowship  of  fondest  thoughts,  too  bright 

To  be  aught  else  than  momentary  gleams 

Of  unsubstantial  pleasure.     So  she  lived, 


Still  loved  and  lovely  in  my  head  and  heart, 

The  image  of  my  fancy,  and  the  charm 

That  mastered  my  affections  ;  and  the  spot 

Where  I  had  first  beheld  her  innocent, 

And  soft,  and  spotless  features,  where  I  heard 

The  liquid  music  of  her  tender  voice — 

That  home  of  all  my  wishes  still  commands 

My  spirit  to  its  center,  and  I  turn, 

Weariejl  and  sated  from  all  other  things, 

To  that,  and  there  find  quietness.     The  charm, 

That  hangs  around  the  moment  and  the  place 

Of  our  first  sudden  meeting,  lives  for  ever, 

And  grows  in  strength  and  freshness  as  in  years; 

It  cannot  die,  although  thy  love  is  gone, 

And  thou,  too,  hast  forgotten  such  a  thing 

As  I  am  has  a  being.     Though  thine  eye 

Lights  on  another  dearer  one,  thy  lip 

Smiles  welcome  to  him,  and  thy  voice  is  heard 

Inviting  him  to  happiness — though  I 

Know  this,  and  even  have  seen  thee  hand  in  hand 

With  one  whom  I  have  scorned,  as  far  beneath 

The  scope  of  my  high  musings,  as  a  toy 

Fit  to  be  breathed  on  by  the  scented  breath 

Of  childish  female  flattery,  as  a  thing 

Thy  pure  and  lifted  spirit  would  have  deemed 

Unworthy  of  communion, — though  I  see 

Thy  fond  eye  resting  on  him,  and  thy  arm 

Locked  tenderly  in  his,  I  will  not  curse, 

Nor  wish  thee  aught  of  evil.     Those  dear  hours 


68 


Shall  be  thy  safety,  and  the  thoughts  that  dwell 

With  a  redeeming  fondness  there  shall  throw 

A  veil  o'er  all  thy  weaker  deeds,  and  quell 

All  darker  feelings,  which  might  rise  within 

My  crushed  and  wounded  bosom.     I  have  lived 

Too  long  for  such  a  heart  as  mine,  and  life 

Must  henceforth  be  an  unprized  gift,  resigned 

When  nature  shall  recall  it,  as  a  load 

That  I  have  long  cast  from  me  with  a  wish 

To  be  from  earth  all  free  ;  for  if  a  world 

Purer  and  brighter  follows,  I  would  know 

How  it  is  pure  and  beautiful,  and  be 

One  of  its  high  inhabitants,  and  fly 

On  a  quick  pinion  through  its  cloudless  skies, 

And  with  the  gladness  of  life's  newest  spring, 

Would  breathe  its  balm,  and  wanton  round  its  flowers  ! 


HE  had  a  twofold  nature,  and  the  one 
Was  of  a  higher  order,  with  the  souls 
Who  shine  along  the  path  of  centuries 
In  full  and  perfect  brightness,  standing  forth 
In  their  own  loftiness  the  beacon  lights 
By  which  the  world  is  guided  and  upborne 
From  its  forever  downward  tendency  ; 
By  which  it  gathers  beauty  and  is  formed 
To  the  one  true  refinement,  that  of  thought 
And  chastened  feeling, — with  such  better  souls 


Communing  in  an  equal  fellowship, 

As  clear  in  intellect,  as  brightly  clear 

In  every  high  conception,  and  as  warm 

In  all  emotions,  where  the  heart  of  man 

Ascends  and  widens,  and  with  outspread  wings 

Shadows  all  human  hearts  in  kindness,  lending 

Its  inspiration  unto  all  who  feel 

The  glow  of  its  benignity,  and  dwell 

Blessed  in  its  steady  sunshine.     As  a  rock 

Lifts  its  blue  forehead  from  a  mountain  ridge, 

And  heaves  a  cloudless  summit  into  heaven, 

For  ever  smiling  in  the  softened  beam 

Of  an  eternal  noonday  ; — to  the  world 

Of  living  things,  who  watch  it  far  below 

With  a  mute  look  of  wonder,  as  a  throne 

On  which  the  gods  are  dwelling, — to  that  world 

Soaring  in  unstained  purity  it  seems 

The  center  of  devotion,  and  the  fane 

Where  the  heart  bows  in  awe,  and  offers  up 

Its  deepest  adoration  : — so  these  souls 

Are  to  the  humbler  spirits,  who  go  on 

Mincing  along  the  track  they  draw,  upreared 

To  a  commanding  loftiness,  and  set 

As  idols  on  their  pedestals  to  fill 

The  crowd  with  wonder.     Men  are  made  to  bend 

Before  the  mighty,  and  to  follow  on 

Submissive  where  the  great  may  lead — the  great 

Whose  might  is  not  in  crowns  and  palaces, 

In  parchment  rolls  or  blazoned  heraldry, 


70 


But  in  the  power  of  thought,  the  energy 

Of  unsupported  mind,  whose  steady  will 

No  force  can  daunt,  no  tangled  path  divert 

From  its  right-onward  purpose.     Few  are  they, 

And  well  that  they  are  few,  who  in  the  blaze 

Of  genius  kindled,  like  a  baleful  star, 

To  such  a  flame  as  terrifies,  and  bears 

Ruin  when  rushing  onward — who  in  wrath 

Are  launched  along  the  path  where  nations  go, 

The  highway  of  the  battle,  and  the  field 

Where  power  is  won,  and  thrones  are  emptied. — Few 

The  spirits  who  originate  and  bend 

All  meaner  hearts  to  wonder  and  obey, 

As  if  their  look  were  death,  their  word  were  fate  ; 

As  if  they  held  the  balance  and  the  sword 

To  measure  out  their  happiness,  and  give 

To  each  his  stated  portion,  and  avenge 

All  such  as  dare  to  murmur. — Few  are  they, 

And  if  they  were  not,  earth  would  be  the  list 

Of  an  eternal  conflict,  the  abode 

Of  ever  warring  fiends,  who  in  the  train 

Of  a  controlling  spirit,  in  the  march 

Of  a  high  conqueror's  madness,  still  athirst 

For  a  new  field  of  bloodshed,  never  tired 

Of  the  hot  harvest  of  a  passionate  war, 

Where  the  deep  feelings  of  a  nation's  rage, 

And  the  awakened  thoughts  of  long  revenge 

Are  blended  with  those  passions,  which  arise 

From  the  uprooted  evils  of  an  age 


71 


Of  ever-growing  tyranny,  the  sense 

That  chains  are  broken,  prison-gates  unbarred, 

And  the  more  galling  servitude  of  mind, 

The  bowing  of  the  spirit  to  the  weight 

Of  a  corrupted  priesthood,  and  a  court, 

Which  robs  to  show  unto  their  famished  eyes 

Their  earnings,  with  a  splendid  mockery 

Of  pageants,  and  false  justice,  and  the  pomp 

Of  a  bedizened  soldiery,  the  tools 

Who  forge  and  link  their  fetters — the  glad  sense 

That  this  deep  charm  is  scattered,  that  this  weight 

Is  from  their  long-bowed  shoulders  shoved  away, 

And  like  the  waking  from  a  painful  dream , 

Has  left  them  in  the  wonder  and  the  joy 

Of  lightness  and  deliverance — who  go  on 

As  tigers  in  blood-thirstiness,  to  slake 

Their  longing  in  the  plunder  and  the  waste 

Of  those  who  dare  not,  like  themselves,  be  free, 

At  least  who  dare  not  cast  the  spell  aside, 

That  binds  them  to  the  altar  and  the  throne, 

And  palsies  all  their  vigour,  and  subdues 

All  their  due  might  of  soul ;  for  men  know  not 

The  force  that  sleeps  within  t}  em,  till  the  sound 

Of  a  loud  warning  wakes  them  from  the  sleep 

Of  a  long  night  of  darkness — they  know  not 

How  they  may  rush  upon  the  coward  foe, 

Whose  power  was  in  delusion,  and  the  maze 

Of  falsehoods  sanctified  by  time,  and  made 

Sacred  by  being  hallowed  to  the  use 


Of  an  unmeaning  worship,  feared  the  more, 

The  more  it  is  unmeaning  :  they  know  not 

How  they  have  only  to  come  forth,  and  say, 

"  Ye  shall  not  be  our  masters,  ye  shall  not 

Riot,  as  ye  were  wont,  in  our  best  blood, 

And  feed  upon  our  toil,  and  in  our  sweat 

Bathe  as  in  perfumed  waters  ;"  how  at  once 

By  firm  resolve,  and  union,  and  the  act 

That  lingers  not  one  moment,  they  are  free, 

And  lords  of  those  who  were  their  lords.     Oh  slaves  ! 

How  long  will  ye  be  silent,  and  await 

The  task-word  of  a  master,  and  bow  down 

To  his  unfeeling  ministers,  and  bear 

His  manacles  and  stripes,  and  see  your  loves 

And  little-ones  torn  from  you  with  a  dumb 

And  quivering  terror,  and  with  fruitless  tears 

Water  the  bitter  bread  of  toil,  and  fill 

The  cup  of  want  and  sorrow  ?  Ye  are  strong, 

And  Nature  has  been  kind  to  you — your  hands 

Might  work  an  awful  vengeance,  could  your  minds 

Throw  off  the  sottishness  of  servitude, 

And  concentrate  their  energies,  and  feel 

Intensely  their  just  power  and  rights.     The  heart 

Sinks  when  want  presses  on  it,  and  the  world 

Turns  from  the  claims  it  urges,  and  will  hear 

None  of  the  earnest  words  by  which  it  pleads 

For  right  and  justice  only — then  he  feels 

Lost  in  that  darkest  wilderness,  the  crowd, 

Who  know  not,  care  not,  when  or  how  he  die, 


73 


Who  pass  him  by  as  if  he  were  a  thing 
Fit  only  for  the  grave,  and  if  he  beg 
One  single  act  of  mercy,  he  has  then 
Resigned  all  nobler  feelings,  and  come  down 
To  such  a  sense  of  wretchedness,  it  weighs 
Like  a  cold  rock  upon  him,  and  the  strength, 
And  light,  and  action  of  his  soul  are  gone, 
And  he  can  only  linger  on  his  way, 
The  scorn  of  those  who  prosper,  and  the  hate 
Of  his  own  better  spirit,  which  will  seek 
Death  or  forgetfulness,  its  only  cure. 


INSCRIPTION. 

THE    NAIAD    OF    THE    FOUNTAIN. 

THOU  who  art  wearied  with  the  idle  world, 
Come  to  my  hospitable  shade.     N  o  sound 
Shall  here  disturb  thee,  but  the  gentle  gush 
Of  a  clear-flowing  fountain,  poured  away 
From  a  rude  rocky  hollow.     Overhead 
My  branches  weaved  with  ivy  and  spring  flowers, 
Moss-rose,  and  woodbine,  intercept  the  day, 
And  make  perpetual  twilight.     Dark  below 
Gushes  the  ever-spouting  spring,  and  spreads 
Light  dew  upon  the  moss  that  beds  it  in, 
As  with  a  velvet  margin.     There  it  lies 
7 


74 


Clear  to  its  lowest  depth,  for  ever  circling 
With  the  undulation  of  the  wave  below, 
And  with  the  faint  uninterrupted  dash 
Of  the  bright  crystal  curve,  that  from  the  rocks 
Darts  with  a  never-wearied  leap  away. 

Enter  beneath  my  hospitable  shade, 
And  thou  mayest  hold  communion  with  the  world 
Of  beautiful  and  pure  imaginings, 
Egerias  and  Dianas,  such  as  came 
On  the  soft  moonlight  to  Endymion, 
Or  such  as  to  the  thoughtful  Roman  king 
Were  all  apparent  at  the  silent  hour, 
When  the  sun  sank  beneath  the  Iberian  wave, 
And  gaily  on  the  Alban  mountain's  cone 
Glittered  the  last  departing  beam  of  day. 

Here  thou  mayest  sit,  and  making  of  the  moss 
A  pillow  for  thee,  ponder  silently 
On  thy  most  inward  feelings,  and  control 
Thy  passions  to  a  calm.     'Tis  wisdom  oft 
To  leave  the  bustle  of  resort,  and  seek 
Silence  wherein  to  meditate  and  hold 
Communion  with  the  spirits  of  better  men, 
And  better  times — for  so  we  always  deem, 
When  we  are  over-wearied  with  the  push 
And  jostling  of  life — of  better  times, 
When  our  grey  ancestors  grew  purely  old, 
And  in  the  last  declining  hour  of  life 
Had  all  the  innocence  of  childhood.     Fond 


75 


And  soothing  is  the  dream :  it  quickens  us 
To  emulate  them,  so  that  we  may  look 
Upon  their  monuments  without  the  blush 
Of  shame  to  mantle  o'er  our  brows.     One  hour 
Of  thoughtful  solitude  may  nerve  the  heart 
For  days  of  conflict — girding  up  its  armour 
To  meet  the  most  insidious  foe,  and  lending 
The  courage  sprung  alone  from  innocence 
And  good  intent. 

The  sun  glows  overhead 
Intensely,  and  the  hot  and  sultry  blue, 
Unclouded  and  unstained,  burns  with  the  blaze 
That  fills  the  orb  of  noon  :  the  panting  hart 
Looks  for  a  shelter,  and  a  cool  fresh  spring 
To  slake  his  thirst ;  the  cattle  in  the  brook 
Lave  their  hot  sides,  and  underneath  the  elm, 
Arching  its  hanging  branches  till  they  dip 
And  kiss  the  scarcely  gliding  water,  mute 
And  patiently  await  the  coming  on 
Of  evening,  to  go  out  around  the  beds 
Of  tufted  grass  and  wild  flowers,  there  to  crop 
The  tender  herbage      Wearied  as  thou  art, 
Corne  to  my  woodland  hall,  and  thou  wilt  find 
Beneath  my  canopy  of  leaf  and  vine, 
And  on  my  beds  of  moss,  so  soft,  they  seem 
Instinct  with  a  quick  spirit  swelling  them 
To  meet  thy  gentle  pressure — thou  wilt  find 
In  these,  and  in  the  clear  and  glassy  depth 


76 


Of  the  round  basin,  strewed  with  sands,  like  snow 
Drifting  and  heaving,  as  the  waters  gush 
From  their  unknown  and  hidden  cave, — the  fall 
Of  molten  crystal  lapsing  from  the  rocks 
Amid  an  intertangled  mass  of  fern 
And  cresses,  where  the  sifted  fountain  flies 
Away  in  a  light  vapoury  cloud,  that  fills 
Freshly  my  secret  bower — ah !  thou  wilt  find 
The  coolness  thou  dost  long  for,  and  the  peace, 
The  silent  peace,  thy  over-wearied  heart 
So  long  has  sought  and  found  not. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

IT  is  the  noon  of  night — the  stars  look  faint 
With  their  long  watching,  and  the  slumbering  earth 
Heaves  not  a  breath — the  very  air  is  still — 
The  waters  hush  their  voices,  and  the  leaf 
Hangs  silent  in  the  woods — no  living  thing 
Looks  on  the  sleep  of  nature — I  alone 
Sit  like  a  centinel,  and  feel  how  calm 
And  beautiful  is  night. 

I  have  thus  often  sat,  and  deep  in  thought 
Outwatched  the  stars  ;  have  seen  their  fires  grow  dim, 
Till  the  young  morning  stood  upon  the  hills 
Wreathed  with  her  dewy  roses,     I  the  while 


77 


Have  fed  my  spirit  on  the  inspiring  dreams 

Of  the  olden  time,  and  with  inquisitive  eye 

Pried  in  the  depths  of  nature.     I  have  gained 

Much  doubt  and  little  certainty  ;  have  lost 

Youth  and  its  innocent  joys,  and  blanched  my  hairs. 

Even  in  my  newest  prime. 

But  I  have  gained  a  mastery  o'er  spirits, 
And  can  evoke  them  from  their  secret  caves, 
Or  from  the  viewless  regions  of  the  air, 
And  call  them  at  my  bidding.     It  is  so. 
I  have  seen  glorious  creatures  throng  around  me, 
All  loveliness  and  light.     They  were  not  dreams, 
But  were  substantial  essences,  pure  forms, 
That  had  a  look  and  voice.     I  spake  to  them, 
And  they  did  answer,  and  their  tones  were  music, 
Such  as  they  say  the  harmony  of  spheres, 
When  the  seven  orbs  move  round  the  golden  sun, 
Hymning  too  deep  and  ravishing  melodies 
For  mortal  ear  to  listen  to,  and  live. 
They  spake,  or  rather  chaunted,  and  their  song 
Revealed  a  mystery  so  high,  methought 
The  fountains  of  all  knowledge  opened  up 
To  meet  my  gaze,  and  from  their  hidden  caves 
Came  forth  the  darkest  elements  of  things, 
And  stood  before  my  presence. 

I  will  try 

Once  more  the.  potency  of  muttered  charms, 
And  they  shall  come  in  their  particular  forms, 
And  do  as  I  shall  bid  them. 
7* 


78 


Spirits  !  if  ye  are  such,  I  do  command  ye, 
From  your  most  secret  hiding  place  come  forth, 
And  be  apparent  to  me.     Spirit  of  Light ! 
From  the  clear  concave  of  the  southern  sky, 
The  world  of  elemental  flame  ;  and  thou 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  abyss  of  rolling  waters ; 
And  thou  who  lurkest  deep  in  central  caves  ; 
And  thou,  light-footed  messenger  of  heaven, 
Whose  way  is  in  the  thin  and  empty  air ; 
I  challenge  your  obedience. 

Hear  ye  not  ] 

There  is  no  sound  to  interrupt  my  voice, 
And  yet  I  have  no  answer.     Comes  there  not 
New  brightness  from  the  south  ?  The  very  air 
Burns  with  the  living  glory.     Haste,  thou  spirit 
Of  most  celestial  beauty  !  I  have  loved  thee, 
And  worshipped  thee,  when  thou  didst  come  at  morning, 
Scattering  thy  light  on  earth,  and  kindling  heaven, 
And  wakening  all  to  life.     Dost  thou  not  come  ; 
Or  is  it  only  that  the  moon  looks  out, 
In  her  unstained  and  virgin  loveliness, 
From  the  white  cloud  that  dimmed  her  like  a  veil  ? 
'Tis  so.     I  have  dreamed  myself  to  the  belief 
Of  my  own  crowding  fancies,  and  have  made 
The  visions  of  my  brain  realities. 
But  no !  there  is  a  sound  on  the  far  waters  ; 
A  form  is  rising  from  their  depths,  and  shedding 
Brightness  on  the  blue  waves.     It  fades — and  now 
There  is  no  other  light  shed  on  the  waters, 


79 


Than  that  beneath  the  moon,  or  some  lone  star 

Deep  sunk  amid  their  darkness.     Ye  have  vanished, 

Dreams  of  delight  and  power !     Ye  gave  to  me 

All  I  have  known  of  joy  ;  for  in  the  sense 

Of  power  I  dwelt  delighted  :  and  though  dreams, 

Baseless  and  empty  dreams,  ye  had  to  me 

The  force  of  strong  reality,  and  made  me, 

In  the  chill  winter  of  untimely  age, 

Even  too  happy.     0  !  there  was  a  spell 

In  the  belief  that  some  unearthly  spirit 

Held  high  communion  with  me,  and  informed 

My  heart  to  higher  deeds,  and  gave  revealings 

Of  a  sublime  futurity,  and  fed 

Those  hopes  that  lend  even  to  the  grave  a  charm. 

But  I  have  tried  them,  and  have  found  them  vain. 
I  have  sought  wisdom,  and  for  this  have  pored 
Over  the  blind  imaginings  of  man, 
And  racked  unwilling  nature  to  reveal 
A  few  half  hidden  laws.     In  the  vain  search, 
Age  has  come  on  me,  and  the  proper  joys 
Of  youth  are  lost  for  ever.     O  !  how  gladly 
Would  I  resign  all  I  have  ever  gained, 
Or  hoped  to  gain,  of  knowledge  or  of  power, 
For  a  few  moments  of  the  innocent  gladness 
A  young  heart  feels,  when  the  pure  bloom  of  health 
Runs  o'er  the  cheek,  and  all  things  look  of  love. 


80 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 

I  SAT  beside  the  pillow  of  a  child — 

His  dying  pillow — and  I  watched  the  ebb 

Of  his  last  fluttering  breath.     All  tranquilly 

He  passed  away,  and  not  a  murmur  came 

From  his  white  lips.     A  film  crept  o'er  his  eye, 

But  did  not  all  conceal  it,  and  at  times 

The  darkness  stole  away,  and  he  looked  out 

Serenely,  with  an  innocent  smile,  as  if 

Pleased  with  an  infant's  toy  ;  and  there  was  then 

A  very  delicate  flush  upon  his  cheek, 

Like  the  new  edging  of  a  damask  rose, 

"When  first  the  bud  uncloses.     As  I  watched, 

I  caught  at  these  awakenings  better  hope, 

And  yielding  to  the  longing  of  my  heart, 

Fancied  I  saw  him  opening  from  a  trance, 

And  with  a  gentle  effort  shaking  off 

The  oppression  of  a  dream.     A  moment  more, 

And  the  film  mantled  o'er  his  eye  again, 

And  the  faint  redness  left  his  faltering  lips, 

And  backward  to  its  center  in  the  heart 

The  crimson  current  rallied,  leaving  him 

Like  a  chill  statue,  icy  cold,  and  pale. 

He  was  my  only  one,  and  I  had  long 

Loved  him  for  all  his  innocent  playfulness, 

And  his  endearing  fondness.     He  would  hang 


81 


Whole  days  around  me,  watching  all  I  did, 

And  questioning  each  particular  act,  as  if 

He  could  not  rest,  till  he  had  known  the  why 

Of  every  word  and  motion.     I  indulged  him, 

And  in  that  kind  indulgence  found  his  love 

Grow  every  hour,  till  I  was  as  his  life, 

And  he  was  more  than  mine.     Well  pleased  I  saw 

His  opening  faculties,  and  well  I  knew 

His  curious  bent  betokened  better  things 

In  a  maturer  age  ;  but  when  he  seemed 

Rosy,  and  full  of  health,  and  o'er  informed 

With  life's  young  buoyancy,  a  hidden  blight 

Nipped  him,  and  he  decayed.     He  sank  away 

With  scarce  a  visible  token,  like  a  breath 

Of  summer  wind,  when  it  has  spent  itself 

And  blows  so  faintly,  that  the  feathery  leaves 

Of  the  Mimosa  only  tell  of  it, 

All  others  resting  as  if  nothing  stirred 

In  the  wide  air.     I  watched  him  eagerly, 

And  I  could  only  see  that  he  decayed, 

And  soon  must  die.     With  a  consenting  stillness 

My  heart  grew  calm,  and  while  his  dying  breath 

Stole  from  his  lips  so  faintly,  not  a  murmur 

Met  the  deep  listening  ear,  I  felt  a  power, 

Too  peaceful  for  an  earthly  emanation, 

Come  with  a  tranquillizing  influence  o'er  me 

And  soothe  me  to  the  trial.     As  I  looked, 

The  quivering  of  his  lids,  that  lay  like  leaves 

Of  alabaster  on  his  darkened  eyes, 


82 


And  the  small  trembling  of  his  parted  lips, 

Curled  outward  like  the  margent  of  a  lily, 

Suddenly  died  away,  and  all  was  still. 

Life  was  no  more — I  knew  it,  and  at  once 

The  utter  loneliness  of  sorrow  sank 

Deep — deep  within  me,  and  awhile  I  sat 

Without  a  tear.     The  stream  was  frozen  up 

And  would  not  flow ;  but  soon  relenting  nature 

Gave  way,  and  a  full  burst  of  passionate  weeping 

Flowed  with  a  sudden  gush,  that  quite  unmanned  me, 

Then  ebbing  silently  it  left  me  calm. 


CLOUDS. 

YE  Clouds,  who  are  the  ornament  of  heaven ; 
Who  give  to  it  its  gayest  shadowings, 
And  its  most  awful  glories  ;  ye  who  roll 
In  the  dark  tempest,  or  at  dewy  evening 
Hang  low  in  tenderest  beauty ;  ye  who,  ever 
Changing  your  Protean  aspects,  now  are  gathered, 
Like  fleecy  piles,  when  the  mid  sun  is  brightest, 
Even  in  the  height  of  heaven,  and  there  repose, 
Solemnly  calm,  without  a  visible  motion, 
Hour  after  hour,  looking  upon  the  earth 
WTith  a  serenest  smile  : — or  ye  who  rather 
Heaped  in  those  sulphury  masses,  heavily 
Jutting  above  their  bases,  like  the  smoke 


Poured  from  a  furnace  or  a  roused  volcano, 

Stand  on  the  dun  horizon,  threatening 

Lightning  and  storm — who,  lifted  from  the  hills, 

March  onward  to  the  zenith,  ever  darkening, 

And  heaving  into  more  gigantic  towers 

And  mountainous  piles  of  blackness — who  then  roar 

With  the  collected  winds  within  your  womb, 

Or  the  far  uttered  thunders — who  ascend 

Swifter  and  swifter,  till  wide  overhead 

Your  vanguards  curl  and  toss  upon  the  tempest 

Like  the  stirred  ocean  on  a  reef  of  rocks 

Just  topping  o'er  its  waves,  while  deep  below 

The  pregnant  mass  of  vapour  and  of  flame 

Rolls  with  an  awful  pomp,  and  grimly  lowers, 

Seeming  to  the  struck  eye  of  fear  the  car 

Of  an  offended  spirit,  whose  swart  features 

Glare  through  the  sooty  darkness — fired  with  vengeance, 

And  ready  with  uplifted  hand  to  smite 

And  scourge  a  guilty  nation ;  ye  who  lie, 

After  the  storm  is  over,  far  away, 

Crowning  the  dripping  forests  with  the  arch 

Of  beauty,  such  as  lives  alone  in  heaven, 

Bright  daughter,  of  the  sun,  bending  around 

From  mountain  unto  mountain  like  the  wreath 

Of  victory,  or  like  a  banner  telling 

Of  joy  and  gladness  ;  ye  who  round  the  moon 

Assemble,  when  she  sits  in  the  mid  sky 

In  perfect  brightness,  and  encircle  her 

With  a  fair  wreath  of  all  aerial  dyes : 


84 


Ye  who,  thus  hovering  round  her,  shine  like  mountains 

Whose  tops  are  never  darkened,  but  remain, 

Centuries  and  countless  ages,  reared  for  temples 

Of  purity  and  light ;  or  ye  who  crowd 

To  hail  the  new-born  day,  and  hang  for  him, 

Above  his  ocean  couch,  a  canopy 

Of  all  inimitable  hues  and  colours, 

Such  as  are  only  penciled  by  the  hands 

Of  the  unseen  ministers  of  earth  and  air, 

Seen  only  in  the  tinting  of  the  clouds, 

And  the  soft  shadowing  of  plumes  and  flowers  ; 

Or  ye  who,  following  in  his  funeral  train, 

Light  up  your  torches  at  his  sepulchre, 

And  open  on  us  through  the  clefted  hills 

Far  glances  into  glittering  worlds  beyond 

The  twilight  of  the  grave,  where  all  is  light, 

Golden  and  glorious  light,  too  full  and  high 

For  mortal  eye  to  gaze  on,  stretching  out 

Brighter  and  ever  brighter,  till  it  spread, 

Like  one  wide  radiant  ocean  without  bounds, 

One  infinite  sea  of  glory : — Thus,  ye  clouds, 

And  in  innumerable  other  shapes 

Of  greatness  or  of  beauty,  ye  attend  us, 

To  give  to  the  wide  arch  above  us,  Life 

And  all  its  changes.     Thus  it  is  to  us 

A  volume  full  of  wisdom,  but  without  ye 

One  awful  uniformity  had  ever 

With  too  severe  a  majesty  oppressed  us. 


85 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  PATRIOTS. 

HERE  rest  the  great  and  good.     Here  they  repose 

After  their  generous  toil.     A  sacred  band, 

They  take  their  sleep  together,  while  the  year 

Comes  with  its  early  flowers  to  deck  their  graves, 

And  gathers  them  again,  as  Winter  frowns. 

Theirs  is  no  vulgar  sepulchre — green  sods 

Are  all  their  monument,  and  yet  it  tells 

A  nobler  history  than  pillared  piles, 

Or  the  eternal  pyramids.     They  need 

No  statue  nor  inscription  to  reveal 

Their  greatness.     It  is  round  them  ;  and  the  joy 

With  which  their  children  tread  the  hallowed  ground 

That  holds  their  venerated  bones,  the  peace 

That  smiles  on  all  they  fought  for,  and  the  wealth 

That  clothes  the  land  they  rescued, — these,  though  mute 

As  feeling  ever  is  when  deepest, — these 

Are  monuments  more  lasting  than  the  fanes 

Reared  to  the  kings  and  demigods  of  old. 

Touch  not  the  ancient  elms,  that  bend  their  shade 
Over  their  lowly  graves  ;  beneath  their  boughs 
There  is  a  solemn  darkness,  even  at  noon, 
Suited  to  such  as  visit  at  the  shrine 
Of  serious  liberty.     No  factious  voice 
Called  them  unto  the  field  of  generous  fame, 
But  the  pure  consecrated  love  of  home. 
8 


86 


No  deeper  feeling  sways  us,  when  it  wakes 
In  all  its  greatness.     It  has  told  itself 
To  the  astonished  gaze  of  awe-struck  kings, 
At  Marathon,  at  Bannockburn,  and  here, 
Where  first  our  patriots  sent  the  invader  back 
Broken  and  cowed.     Let  these  green  elms  be  all 
To  tell  us  where  they  fought,  and  where  they  lie. 
Their  feelings  were  all  nature,  and  they  need 
No  art  to  make  them  known.     They  live  in  us, 
While  we  are  like  them,  simple,  hardy,  bold, 
Worshipping  nothing  but  our  own  pure  hearts, 
And  the  one  universal  Lord.     They  need 
No  column  pointing  to  the  heaven  they  sought, 
To  tell  us  of  their  home.     The  heart  itself, 
Left  to  its  own  free  purpose,  hastens  there, 
And  there  alone  reposes.     Let  these  elms 
Bend  their  protecting  shadow  o'er  their  graves, 
And  build  with  their  green  roof  the  only  fane, 
Where  we  may  gather  on  the  hallowed  day 
That  rose  to  them  in  blood,  and  set  in  glory. 
Here  let  us  meet,  and  while  our  motionless  lips 
Give  not  a  sound,  and  all  around  is  mute 
In  the  deep  sabbath  of  a  heart  too  full 
For  words  or  tears — here  let  us  strew  the  sod 
With  the  first  flowers  of  spring,  and  make  to  them 
An  offering  of  the  plenty  Nature  gives, 
And  they  have  rendered  ours — perpetually. 


87 


THE  DESOLATE  CITY. 

I  had  a  vision. — 


A  city  lay  before  me,  desolate, 

And  yet  not  all  decayed.     A  summer  sun 

Shone  on  it  from  a  most  ethereal  sky, 

And  the  soft  winds  threw  o'er  it  such  a  balm, 

One  would  have  thought  it  was  a  sepulchre, 

And  this  the  incense  offered  to  the  manes 

Of  the  departed. 

In  the  light  it  lay 

Peacefully,  as  if  all  its  thousands  took 
Their  afternoon's  repose,  and  soon  would  wake 
To  the  loud  joy  of  evening.     There  it  lay, 
A  city  of  magnificent  palaces, 
And  churches  towering  more  like  things  of  Heaven, 
The  glorious  fabrics,  fancy  builds  in  clouds, 
And  shapes  on  loftiest  mountains — bright  their  domes 
Threw  back  the  living  ray,  and  proudly  stood 
Many  a  statue  looking  like  the  forms 
Of  spirits  hovering  in  mid  air.     Tall  trees, 
Cypress  and  plane,  waved  over  many  a  hill 
Cumbered  with  ancient  ruins — broken  arches, 
And  tottering  columns — vaults,  where  never  came 
The  blessed  beam  of  day,  but  only  lamps 
Shedding  a  funeral  light,  were  kindled  there, 
And  gave  to  the  bright  frescoes  on  the  walls. 


88 


And  the  pale  statues  in  their  far  recesses, 

A  dim  religious  awe.     Rudely  they  lay, 

Scarce  marking  out  to  the  inquisitive  eye 

Their  earliest  outline.     But  as  desolate 

Slumbered  the  newer  city,  though  its  walls 

Were  yet  unbroken,  and  its  towering  domes 

Had  never  stooped  to  ruin.     All  was  still ; 

Hardly  the  faintest  sound  of  living  thing 

Moved  through  the  mighty  solitude — and  yet 

All  wore  the  face  of  beauty.     Not  a  cloud 

Hung  in  the  lofty,  sky  that  seemed  to  rise 

In  twofold  majesty,  so  bright  and  pure, 

It  seemed  indeed  a  crystalline  sphere — and  there 

The  sun  rode  onward  in  his  conquering  march 

Serenely  glorious.     From  the  mountain  heights, 

Tinged  with  the  blue  of  heaven,  to  the  wide  sea, 

Glassed  with  as  pure  a  blue,  one  desolate  plain 

Spread  out,  and  over  it  the  fairest  sky 

Bent  round  and  blessed  it.     Life  was  teeming  there 

In  all  its  lower  forms,  a  wilderness 

Of  rank  luxuriance  ;  flowers,  and  purpling  vines 

Matted  with  deepest  foliage,  hid  the  ruins, 

And  gave  the  semblance  of  a  tangled  wood 

To  piles,  that  once  were  loudly  eloquent 

With  the  glad  cry  of  thousands.     There  were  gardens 

Round  stateliest  villas,  full  of  graceful  statues 

And  temples  reared  to  woodland  deities  ; 

And  they  were  overcrowded  with  the  excess. 

Of  beauty.     All  that  most  is  coveted 


Beneath  a  colder  sky,  grew  wantonly 
And  richly  there.     Myrtles  and  citrons  filled 
The  air  with  fragrance.     From  the  tufted  elm, 
Bent  with  its  own  too  massy  foliage,  hung 
Clusters  of  sunny  grapes  in  frosted  purple, 
Drinking  in  spirit  from  the  glowing  air, 
And  dropping  generous  dews.     The  very  wind 
Seemed  there  a  lover,  and  his  easy  wings 
Fanned  the  gay  bowers,  as  if  in  fond  delay 
He  bent  o'er  loveliest  things,  too  beautiful 
Ever  to  know  decay.     The  silent  air 
Floating  as  softly  as  a  cloud  of  roses, 
Dropped  from  Idalia  in  a  dewy  shower, — 
The  air  itself  seemed  like  the  breath  of  heaven 
Filling  the  groves  of  Eden.     Yet  these  wralls 
Are  desolate — not  a  trace  of  living  man 
Is  found  amid  these  glorious  works  of  man, 
And  nature's  fairer  glories.     Why  should  he 
Be  absent  from  the  festival  of  life, 
The  holiday  of  nature]     Why  not  come 
To  add  to  the  sweet  sounds  of  winds  and  waters — 
Of  winds  uttering  Mo\mn  melodies 
To  the  bright,  listening  flowers,  and  waters  falling 
Most  musical  from  marble  fountains  wreathed 
With  clustering  ivy,  like  a  poet's  brow — 
\\hy  comes  he  not  to  add  his  higher  strains, 
And  be  the  interpreter  of  lower  things, 
In  intellectual  worship,  at  the  throne 
Of  the  beneficent  power,  that  gave  to  them 
S* 


90 


Their  pride  and  beauty  1 — "  In  these  palaces, 
These  awful  temples,  these  religious  caves, 
These  hoary  ruins,  and  these  twilight  groves 
Teeming  with  life  and  love, — a  secret  plague 
Dwells,  and  the  unwary  foot,  that  ventures  here. 
Returns  not — Fly !  To  linger  here  is  death." 


MORNING  AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

A  NIGHT  had  passed  away  among  the  hills, 
And  now  the  first  faint  tokens  of  the  dawn 
Showed  in  the  east.     The  bright  and  dewy  star, 
Whose  mission  is  to  usher  in  the  morn, 
Looked  through  the  cool  air,  like  a  blessed  thing 
In  a  far  purer  world.     Below  there  lay 
Wrapped  round  a  woody  mountain  tranquilly 
A  misty  cloud.     Its  edges  caught  the  light, 
That  now  came  up  from  out  the  unseen  depth 
Of  the  full  fount  of  day,  and  they  were  laced 
W  ith  colours  ever  brightening.     I  had  waked 
From  a  long  sleep  of  many  changing  dreams, 
And  now  in  the  fresh  forest  air  I  stood 
Nerved  to  another  day  of  wandering. 
Before  me  rose  a  pinnacle  of  rock, 
Lifted  above  the  wood  that  hemmed  it  in, 
And  now  already  glowing.     There  the  beams 
Came  from  the  far  horizon,  and  they  wrapped  it 


91 


In  light  and  glory.     Round  its  vapoury  cone 

A  crown  of  far-diverging  rays  shot  out, 

And  gave  to  it  the  semblance  of  an  altar 

Lit  for  the  worship  of  the  undying  flame, 

That  centered  in  the  circle  of  the  sun, 

Now  coming  from  the  ocean's  fathomless  oaves, 

Anon  would  stand  in  solitary  pomp 

Above  the  loftiest  peaks,  and  cover  them 

With  splendour  as  a  garment.     Thitherward 

I  bent  my  eager  steps  ;  and  through  the  grove, 

Now  dark  as  deepest  night,  and  thickets  hung 

With  a  rich  harvest  of  unnumbered  gems, 

Waiting  the  clearer  dawn  to  catch  the  hues 

Shed  from  the  starry  fringes  of  its  veil 

On  cloud,  and  mist,  and  dew,  and  backward  thrown 

In  infinite  reflections,  on  I  went 

Mounting  with  hasty  foot,  and  thence  emerging 

I  scaled  that  rocky  steep,  and  there  awaited 

Silent  the  full  appearing  of  the  sun. 

Below  there  lay  a  far  extended  sea 
Rolling  in  feathery  waves.     The  wind  blew  o'er  it, 
And  tossed  it  round  the  high  ascending  rocks, 
And  swept  it  through  the  half  hidden  forest  tops, 
Till,  like  an  ocean  waking  into  storm, 
It  heaved  and  weltered.     Gloriously  the  light 
Crested  its  billows,  and  those  craggy  islands 
Shone  on  it  like  to  palaces  of  spar 
Built  on  a  sea  of  pearl.     Far  overhead, 
The  sky,  without  a  vapour  or  a  stain, 


Intensely  blue,  even  deepened  into  purple, 

Where  nearer  the  horizon  it  received 

A  tincture  from  the  mist  that  there  dissolved 

Into  the  viewless  air, — the  sky  bent  round, 

The  awful  dome  of  a  most  mighty  temple 

Built  by  omnipotent  hands  for  nothing  less 

Than  infinite  worship.     There  I  stood  in  silence — 

1  had  no  words  to  tell  the  mingled  thoughts 

Of  wonder  and  of  joy  that  then  came  o'er  me, 

Even  with  a  whirlwind's  rush.     So  beautiful, 

So  bright^  so  glorious !     Such  a  majesty 

In  yon  pure  vault !     So  many  dazzling  tints 

In  yonder  waste  of  waves, — so  like  the  ocean 

With  its  unnumbered  islands  there  encircled 

By  foaming  surges,  that  the  mounting  eagle, 

Lifting  his  fearless  pinion  through  the  clouds 

To  bathe  in  purest  sunbeams,  seemed  an  ospray 

Hovering  above  his  prey,  and  yon  tall  pines, 

Their  tops  half-mantled  in  a  snowy  veil, 

A  frigate  with  full  canvas,  bearing  on 

To  conquest  and  to  glory.     But  even  these 

Had  round  them  something  of  the  lofty  air 

In  which  they  moved  ;  not  like  to  things  of  earth, 

But  heightened,  and  made  glorious,  as  became 

Such  pomp  and  splendour. 

Who  can  tell  the  brightness. 
That  every  moment  caught  a  newer  glow, 
That  circle,  with  its  center  like  the  heart 
Of  elemental  fire,  and  spreading  out 


93 


In  floods  of  liquid  gold  on  the  blue  sky 

And  on  the  opaline  waves,  crowned  with  a  rainbow 

Bright  as  the  arch  that  bent  above  the  throne 

Seen  in  a  vision  by  the  holy  man 

In  Patmos !  who  can  tell  how  it  ascended, 

And  flowed  more  widely  o'er  that  lifted  ocean, 

Till  instantly  the  unobstructed  sun 

Rolled  up  his  sphere  of  fire,  floating  away — 

Away  in  a  pure  ether,  far  from  earth, 

And  all  its  clouds, — and  pouring  forth  unbounded 

His  arrowy  brightness  !     From  that  burning  center 

At  once  there  ran  along  the  level  line 

Of  that  imagined  sea,  a  stream  of  gold — 

Liquid  and  flowing  gold,  that  seemed  to  tremble 

Even  with  a  furnace  heat,  on  to  the  point 

Whereon  I  stood.     At  once  that  sea  of  vapour 

Parted  away,  and  melting  into  air, 

Rose  round  me,  and  I  stood  involved  in  light, 

As  if  a  flame  had  kindled  up,  and  wrapped  me 

In  its  innocuous  blaze.     Away  it  rolled, 

Wave  after  wave.     They  climbed  the  highest  rocks, 

Poured  over  them  in  surges,  and  then  rushed 

Down  glens  and  valleys,  like  a  wintry  torrent 

Dashed  instant  to  the  plain.     It  seemed  a  moment, 

And  they  were  gone,  as  if  the  touch  of  fire 

At  once  dissolved  them.     Then  I  found  myself 

Midway  in  air  ;  ridge  after  ridge  below, 

Descended  with  their  opulence  of  woods 

Even  to  the  dim  seen  level,  where  a  lake 


94 


Flashed  in  the  sun,  and  from  it  wound  a  line, 
Now  silvery  bright,  even  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  encircling  hills.     A  waste  of  rocks 
Was  round  me— but  below  how  beautiful, 
How  rich  the  plain  !  a  wilderness  of  groves 
And  ripening  harvests  ;  while  the  sky  of  June — 
The  soft  blue  sky  of  June,  and  the  cool  air, 
That  makes  it  then  a  luxury  to  live, 
Only  to  breathe  it,  and  the  busy  echo 
Of  cascades,  and  the  voice  of  mountain  brooks, 
Stole  with  such  gentle  meanings  to  my  heart, 
That  where  I  stood  seemed  heaven. 


THE  PERPETUAL  YOUTH  OF  NATURE. 

A    SOLILOQUY. 

WITH  what  a  hollow  voice  these  broken  ruins 
Tell  of  the  vanished  past.     Here  they  are  thrown 
Too  rudely  for  the  most  inquiring  eye 
To  read  one  legend  of  the  men  who  reared  them, 
Or  even  form  a  guess  of  those  who  made 
These  walls  their  home.     It  is  a  beautiful  clime, 
And  all  the  year  is  lovely  on  these  shores  ; 
For  there  is  neither  winter  here  to  blight, 
Nor  the  hot  sun  to  dry  the  fountains  up, 
And  make  the  plains  a  desert.     Nature  here 


95 


Has  built  her  bower  of  evergreens  ;  and  flowers 

Are  never  wanting  for  her  festivals, 

And  these  are  every  day,  and  there  is  in  them 

Such  a  perpetual  variety 

Of  bright  and  fair,  the  heart  is  never  weary 

Of  the  soft  revelry ; — and  yet  no  trace 

Of  human  footsteps  on  the  bordering  sands 

Of  the  calm  ocean,  gives  a  sign  that  man 

Has  found  his  way  before  me  to  this  haunt 

Of  silence  and  repose.     Well,  be  it  so, 

And  I  will  hold  myself  the  rightful  lord 

Of  all  this  fair  domain,  by  the  strong  claim 

Of  first  discovery.     No  inheritance 

Of  gilded  palaces,  or  loaded  fields 

Bent  with  a  thousand  harvests,  could  so  fill 

My  spirit  with  the  stirring  health  of  joy, 

As  thus  to  hold  myself  the  sole  possessor 

Of  such  a  solitude— so  full  of  life, 

And  yet  so  mute, — so  bright  and  beautiful, 

And  yet  so  darkly  shadowed  with  the  pall 

Of  buried  ages.     How  the  merry  vines 

Go  gadding  in  the  brisk  and  spirited  air, 

That  even  calls  from  out  the  barren  rocks 

A  welcoming  smile.     The  wind  is  very  low — 

It  hardly  wags  the  shrinking  violet, 

Or  sends  a  quiver  to  the  aspen  leaf, 

Or  curls  the  green  wave  on  the  pebbled  shore, 

Or  gives  a  wrinkle  to  the  quiet  sea, 

That  like  a  giant  resting  from  his  toil, 


96 


Sleeps  in  the  morning  sun.     That  flowery  palm 
Has  a  most  glorious  aspect  as  he  bows 
In  silent  worship  to  his  rising  god  ; 
And  from  his  station  on  the  tallest  pile 
Of  these  mysterious  ruins,  once  the  shrine, 
It  may  be,  of  the  living  Sun  himself, 
How  like  a  most  majestic  sovereign 
He  keeps  his  lofty  seat,  and  yet  adores 
The  Lord  that  made  him !     It  is  wonderful, 
That  man  should  hold  himself  so  haughtily, 
And  talk  of  an  immortal  name,  and  feed 
His  proud  ambition  with  such  daring  hopes, 
As  creatures  of  a  more  eternal  nature 
Alone  should  form.     Why,  'tis  a  mockery 
Too  poor  for  tears,  and  yet  too  sad  for  smiles, 
To  think  how  much  of  glitter  and  of  pride 
Has  flaunted  in  the  sun,  and  sent  him  back 
His  fullest  beams.     These-fude  disjointed  heaps. 
That  seem  the  chaos  of  a.broken  world, 
And  hardly  give  us  signs  enough  to  show, 
They  were  not  thrown  from  out  the  central  earth 
By  an  upheaving  earthquake — these  were  bright 
With  such  barbaric  pomp,  as  made  the  sun 
Muffle  his  head,  and  hide  himself  at  noon 
To  shun  the  poor  encounter.     So  they  sung, 
The  sycophants,  who  told  the  gorgeous  tyrant 
Of  these  once  peopled  shores,  he  was  a  god, 
And  with  the  port  and  bearing  of  a  god 
Sat  on  his  throne,  or  in  his  chariot 


97 


Went  sounding  on  his  long  triumphal  way. 
Fools !  and  where  are  they  ?     Not  a  mark  to  tell 
The  shadows  of  their  names.     The  tooth  of  Time 
Has  ground  the  marble  sculptures  to  rude  forms, 
Such  as  the  falling  waters  eat  from  rocks 
In  the  deep  gloom  of  caves ! — and  yet,  as  if 
They  meant  to  show  their  scorn  of  him,  who  calls 
Himself  their  lord,  the  beasts  and  creeping  things 
Have  come  from  out  their  deserts  and  their  holes, 
And  made  their  dens  in  the  crushed  palaces, 
And  round  the  buried  altars  hollowed  out 
Their  lurking  places.     0  !  how  fresh  and  fair 
Grows  the  young  grass,  and  how  the  wild  vines  clasp 
The  rifted  columns,  with  as  bright  a  foliage, 
As  when  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  earth 
First  rose  the  rampant  Spring,  and  the  glad  Sun 
Laughed  from  his  azure  throne  to  see  the  buds 
Put  out  their  tender  leaves,  and  the  soft  green 
Spread  like  a  carpet  to  the  tented  sky. 


ITALY— A  CONFERENCE. 

A.  WHY  hast  thou  such  a  downward  look  of  care, 
As  if  thine  eye  refused  the  sweet  communion 
Of  these  enchanted  skies  1     I  cannot  weary 
In  gazing  on  them,  there  is  such  a  clearness 
In  the  mid-noon ;  and  then  the  calmer  hours 
9 


98 


Have  such  a  glory  round  them,  that  I  grow 

Enamoured  of  their  clouds.     0  !  they  have  caught 

Their  hues  in  heaven,  and  they  come  stealing  to  us 

Like  messengers  of  love  to  kindle  up 

This  volatile  air.     How  light  and  thin  it  floats  ! 

Methinks  I  now  can  pass  into  the  depths 

Of  yon  wide  firmament,  it  lies  so  open 

And  shows  so  fair.     The  stars  are  hung  below  it, 

And  they  are  moving  in  a  vacancy, 

Like  the  poised  eagle.     How  the  studded  moon, 

All  dropped  with  glittering  points,  rolls  on  its  way 

Between  the  pillowy  clouds,  and  that  which  seems 

A  crystalline  arch — a  dome  that  rests  on  air, 

Buoyed  by  its  lightness  !     Can  thy  heavy  eyes 

Still  pore  on  the  discoloured  earth,  and  choose 

Their  home  in  darkness  ?  Something  weighs  upon  thee 

With  no  light  burden,  if  thou  hast  no  heart 

To  mingle  with  the  beautiful  world  around  thee. 

B.  Thou  talk'st  of  clouds  and  skies.     Has  the  sweet  face 
Of  spring  a  power  to  charm  away  the  fiends 
That  riot  on  the  soul  1     Will  the  foul  spirit 
Go,  when  the  cock  crows,  like  a  muttering  ghost, 
To  find  his  kindred  shades,  and  leave  the  heart 
To  gladden  through  the  day ;  and  dares  he  not 
To  fill  it  with  his  terrors,  when  the  Sun 
Is  out  in  heaven  ?     Is  there  a  sovereign  balm 
In  cloudless  skies,  and  bright  and  glowing  noons, 
To  make  the  spirit  light,  and  drive  from  it 


99 


The  moody  madness  and  the  listless  sorrow  1 

I  feel  there  is  not.     Something  tells  me,  here, 

There  may  be  such  a  grief,  that  nothing  earthly 

Hath  power  to  stay  it.     I  too  have  a  feeling, 

How  beautiful  this  clime  ;  and  though  the  native 

Looks  on  it  with  a  blank  indifference, 

To  us  who  had  our  birth  in  clouded  skies, 

And  reckoned  it  a  bright  and  fortunate  day, 

If  the  sun  gave  us  but  an  hour  at  noon, 

It  is  indeed  a  luxury  to  see 

Whole  days  without  a  cloud,  but  these  light  shapes. 

That  float  around  us  more  like  heavenly  spirits, 

They  are  so  bright  and  wear  such  glorious  hues, 

Or  hang  so  quietly,  and  look  so  pure, 

When  all  is  still  at  noon.     O  !  I  have  felt 

This  luxury  of  sense,  but  yet  it  comes  not 

So  far  as  here.     The  heart  knows  nothing  of  it ; 

And  now  that  I  have  seen  so  many  days, 

All  of  an  equal  brightness,  like  the  calm 

That  reigns,  they  say,  perpetually  in  heaven, 

Why — I  grow  weary  of  them,  and  my  thoughts 

Are  on  the  past.     Thou  need'st  no  other  answer. 

A.  'Tis  not  the  barren  luxury  of  sense, 

That  makes  me  love  these  skies — but  there  is  in  them 
A  living  spirit.     I  can  feel  it  stealing 
Even  to  my  heart  of  hearts,  and  waking  there 
Feelings  that  never  yet  have  stirred  within  me, 
So  blessed,  that  I  almost  weep  to  think 


100 


How  poor  my  life  without  them.     I  now  walk 

In  a  glad  company  of  happy  visions, 

And  all  the  air  seems  like  a  dwelling-place 

For  glorious  creatures.     Like  the  shifting  waves, 

That  toss  on  the  white  shore,  when  evening  breezes 

Steal  to  the  land  in  summer,  they  are  floating 

In  airy  trains  around  me.     Now  they  come 

Laughing  on  yonder  mountain  side,  a  troop 

Of  jovial  nymphs  ;  and  now  they  flit  away 

Round  the  far  islands  of  the  golden  sea, 

Islands  of  light  that  seem  to  hang  in  air, 

Midway  in  heaven.     No  wonder  they  so  love 

The  song  and  dance,  and  walk  with  such  a  look 

Of  thoughtless  gaiety — the  merry  beggars, 

Who  breed  like  insects  on  these  sunny  shores, 

And  live  as  idly.     There  are  glorious  faces 

Among  them — there  are  Roman  spirits  here, 

And  Grecian  eyes  that  tell  a  thousand  fancies, 

Like  those  that  shaped  their  deities,  and  wrought 

Perfection.     True,  they  have  no  stirring  hopes 

To  lift  them ;  yet  at  times  they  will  give  vent 

To  the  overburdened  soul,  and  then  they  speak 

In  oracles,  or  like  the  harp  of  Memnon, 

They  utter  poetry,  as  the  bright  skies 

And  wandering  winds  awake  it.     Who  can  wonder, 

That  every  voice  is  bursting  out  in  music, 

And  every  peasant  tunes  his  mandoline 

To  the  delicious  airs,  that  creep  so  softly 

Into  the  slumbering  ear !     0  !  'tis  a  land, 


101 

Where  life  is  doubled,  and  a  brighter  world 
Rolls  over  this,  and  there  the  spirit  lives 
In  a  gay  paradise,  and  here  we  breathe 
An  atmosphere  of  roses. 

B.  Yes— but  this 

Is  nothing  to  the  heart.     They  never  felt, 
These  summer  flies,  who  buzz  so  gaily  round  us, 
They  never  felt,  one  moment,  what  we  feel 
With  such  a  silent  tenderness,  and  keep 
So  closely  round  our  hearts.     We  do  not  wake 
The  echoes  with  our  loud  and  thoughtless  carols, 
Nor  sit  whole  days  beneath  a  bowering  vine, 
Singing  its  amber  juice,  and  telling  too 
Of  starry  eyes,  and  soft  and  languishing  looks, 
And  talking  of  our  agonies  with  smiles, 
Making  a  sport  of  sorrow.     No,  our  year, 
With  its  long  time  of  gloom,  and  hurried  days 
Of  warmth,  that  call  for  more  of  toil  than  pleasure, 
Our  pensive  year  forbids  the  wandering  spirit 
To  make  itself  a  song-bird.     We  must  keep 
Our  sorrows  and  our  hopes  close  cherished  by  us, 
Till  the  heart  softens,  and  by  often  musing 
Takes  a  deep,  serious  tone,  and  has  a  feeling 
For  all  that  suffer.     So  we  often  bear 
A  grief,  that  is  the  burden  of  a  life, 
And  will  not  leave  us.     Something  that  would  seem 
Too  trifling  to  be  laughed  at  here,  will  weigh 
And  weigh  upon  us,  till  we  cannot  lift  it, 
9* 


102 

And  then  we  pine  and  die.     Her  heart  is  broken, 

And  the  worm  feeds  upon  her  early  roses, 

And  now  her  lily  fades,  and  all  its  brightness 

Turns  to  a  green  and  sallow  melancholy, 

And  then  we  strew  her  grave  ;  but  here  the  passion 

Breaks  out  in  wildness,  then  is  sung  away 

With  a  complaining  air,  and  so  is  ended. 

I  have  no  sympathy  with  such  light  spirits, 

But  I  can  see  my  sober  countrymen 

Gather  around  their  winter's  hearth,  and  read 

Of  no  unreal  suffering,  and  then  weep 

Big  tears  that  ease  the  heart,  and  need  no  words 

To  make  their  meaning  known.     One  silent  hour 

Of  deep  and  thoughtful  feeling  stands  me  more, 

Than  a  whole  age  of  such  a  heartless  mirth, 

As  a  bright  summer  wakens. 


THE  FAIR  ITALIAN. 

SHE  looked  how  lovely.     Not  the  face  of  heaven- 

In  its  serenest  calm,  nor  earth  in  all 

Its  garniture  of  flowers,  nor  all  that  live 

In  the  bright  world  of  dreams,  nor  all  the  eye 

Of  a  creative  spirit  meets  in  air, 

Could  in  the  smile  and  sunshine  of  her  charms, 

Not  feel  itself  overmastered  by  such  rare 

And  perfect  beauty.     Grace  was  over  all ; 


103 


Her  form,  her  face,  her  attitudes,  her  motions, 

Each  had  peculiar  charms.     Like  gliding  swans, 

Sailing  upon  a  smoothly  mirrored  lake, 

Before  the  breeze  of  evening,  when  the  waves 

Curl  rippling  round  their  bosoms,  so  she  moved 

Through  all  the  mazy  dance.     She  bore  herself 

So  gently,  that  the  lily  on  its  stalk 

Bends  not  so  easily  its  dewy  head, 

As  with  a  gliding  step  she  wound  her  way 

To  the  soft  echoes  of  the  light  guitar, 

The  dreamy  music  of  her  sunny  clime 

Where  all  is  languishing.     There  was  a  brightness, 

How  high,  and  yet  how  soothing  in  her  smile. 

0  !  I  could  look  on  her  a  summer's  day, 

Delighted — every  moment  more  delighted, 

With  the  soft  sense  that  hovers  over  me, 

When  on  a  slope  of  moss,  I  lay  me  down 

In  the  warm  sun  of  April.     I  could  kneel 

In  worship  to  her,  as  a  radiant  vision 

Sent  from  a  purer  world,  without  a  stain 

Of  earth  breathed  over  her,  but  all  entire 

In  infant  loveliness,  yet  ripe  and  full 

In  her  meridian  elegance,  a  flower 

With  all  its  leaves  expanded,  and  its  hues 

Mellowed  by  kindly  sunbeams. 

It  was  evening ; 

The  sun  looked  through  the  wood  of  chestnut  trees, 
And  bronzed  their  rugged  trunks,  and  lit  their  leaves, 
Till,  as  they  rustled  on  the  bending  boughs, 


104 


Each  seemed  a  flake  of  gold  ;  and  far  beyond  them 

My  eye  caught  glimpses  of  a  quiet  bay, 

A  nook  of  sleeping  waters,  where  the  light, 

Shone  with  a  flashing  blaze.     It  was  so  still ! 

The  wind  had  stolen  into  the  mountain  valleys, 

And  left  the  plains  and  hillocks  to  the  calm 

That  sinks  upon  the  world  when  night  steals  on, 

And  the  day  takes  its  farewell,  like  the  words 

Of  a  departing  friend,  or  the  last  tone 

Of  hallowed  music  in  a  minster's  aisles, 

Heard,  when  it  floats  along  the  shade  of  elms, 

In  the  still  place  of  graves.     A  wood  of  palms 

Rose  on  a  far  hill,  where  the  amber  light 

Was  rich  and  dazzling,  with  their  pointed  leaves 

So  nicely  balanced,  that  the  faintest  breathing 

Of  the  wide  air  swayed  them  in  graceful  curves, 

While  all  below  seemed  in  the  still  repose 

Of  sleep,  the  twin  of  death,  that  infant  slumber, 

Where  life  is  only  visible  in  the  play 

Of  blushes,  which  for  ever  come  and  go 

On  the  soft  cheek's  transparency,  as  pure 

As  the  clear  rime,  that  masks  the  untimely  rose, 

Mellowing  its  purple  to  the  hues  of  heaven, 

The  tremulous  tints  of  air. 

I  lay  abroad 

In  careless  dreaming,  by  the  twisted  roots 
Of  an  outspreading  beech-tree,  and  methought, 
The  swains  of  Enna  and  Parthenope 
Were  dancing  round  me  to  the  sound  of  viols 


105 

And  oaten  pipes.     As  the  light  sank  away, 

The  rose  and  jasmine  thickets,  and  the  shades 

O'erhung  with  vines,  in  the  full  scent  of  flowers, 

Seemed  populous  with  the  sylvan  family 

Of  nymphs  and  fauns.     I  listened  to  the  sounds 

Of  Grecian  melody  and  song,  and  lay 

Reclining  on  a  couch  of  new  plucked  leaves, 

Attentive  to  the  many  quiet  voices, 

That  fill  a  summer's  night — the  drowsy  hum 

Of  beetles,  and  the  shrill  cicada's  song, 

And  the  complaining  of  the  nightingale, 

That  in  a  bush  of  bramhles  passed  away 

The  silent  hours,  in  answering  to  the  echoes 

Herself  had  made.     As  thus  I  sank  away 

In  pleasant  thoughts  of  the  dear  times  of  old? 

I  saw  a  group  of  dancers,  on  a  lawn 

Not  distant,  to  the  music  of  a  lute 

Cross  the  yet  rosy  twilight.     She  was  there, 

Lovelier  for  the  witching  time  they  chose 

To  be  their  hour  of  joy.     Her  full  dark  curls 

Were  clustered  on  a  brow  of  ivory, 

And  fell  in  lavish  wealth,  shading  a  neck 

Clear  as  an  alabaster  shrine  concealing 

A  ruby,  that  with  soft  suffusion  fills  it, 

As  with  a  living  glow.     Her  face  was  kindled 

By  the  quick  glances  of  her  large  black  eyes, 

That  flashed  from  underneath  her  arching  brows, 

Like  gems  in  caves  ;  and  yet  there  was  a  softness 

At  times,  when  shades  of  thought  stole  over  her— 


106 

But  in  the  happy  consciousness  of  beauty 

Her  heart  was  all  so  joyous,  that  her  smiles 

Gave  a  perpetual  sunlight  to  that  face, 

So  beautiful,  to  see  it  was  to  love. 

I  could  not  choose  but  watch  with  earnest  gaze 

One  of  so  perfect  form,  and  finished  grace, 

That  those  who  moved  around  her  were  but  foils 

Heightening  the  one  sole  diamond.     When  I  look 

On  one  so  fair,  I  must  believe  that  heaven 

Sent  her  in  kindness,  that  our  hearts  might  waken 

To  its  own  loveliness,  and  lift  themselves, 

By  such  an  adoration,  from  a  dark 

And  grovelling  world.  Such  beauty  should  be  worshipped, 

And  not  a  thought  of  weakness  or  decay 

Should  mingle  with  the  pure  and  hallowed  dreams 

In  which  it  dwells  before  us.     It  should  live 

Eternal ;  or,  if  it  must  pass  away, 

And  lose  one  tint  of  its  now  perfect  brightness, 

Let  it  be  hidden  from  me,  for  the  sense, 

That  all  this  glow  must  fade,  falls  on  my  heart. 

Like  the  cold  weight  of  death. 


107 


INSCRIPTION. 


STRANGER,  if  thou  hast  ever  blest  the  shade, 
That  lent  thee  shelter  from  the  sun  or  rain, 
Thou  wilt  not  rest  thee  underneath  this  elm 
Without  a  sense  of  gratitude.     The  boughs, 
That  overshadow  thee  have  borne  the  brunt 
Of  centuries,  and  have  records  of  the  past 
In  all  their  whispering1  leaves.     We  cannot  hear  them 
Telling  their  tales,  through  the  long  summer  day, 
To  the  cool  west-wind,  and  have  other  thoughts 
Than  of  the  generations  who  have  sat, 
In  long  succession,  on  the  mossy  turf 
That  beds  these  twisted  roots.     Sunshine  and  calm, 
Darkness  and  storm,  have  been  around  these  boughs, 
And  they  have  smiled  to  the  unclouded  sky, 
And  rocked  in  the  rude  tempest,  but  have  stood 
Unbroken,  while  the  stream  of  human  life 
Has  ebbed  and  flowed  like  the  perpetual  tide, 
And  hardly  left  a  trace  upon  its  shores, 
To  tell  us  where  it  came.     Then  rest  thee,  stranger, 
And  think  thou  hearest  in  the  ancient  wood 
A  monitor,  that  warns  thee  of  thy  end 
With  a  low  earnest  voice,  a  voice  of  kindness, 
That,  like  a  silent  fountain  running  over, 
Refreshes  where  it  flows,  and,  like  its  waters, 
1  Gives  life  to  the  sere  heart  it  passes  by. 


108 


A  VISION. 

I  HAVE  been  haunted  by  an  awful  dream — 

A  vision  of  my  childhood — one  that  grew 

From  an  o'erheated  fancy,  nursed  to  fear 

In  a  dark,  visionary  creed.     A  star, 

Of  a  malign  aspect,  had  been  to  me, 

For  a  few  weeks  of  dread  uncertainty, 

The  prophet  of  evil ;  and  I  saw  in  it 

The  minister  of  judgments,  such  as  oft 

Had  been  denounced  before  me,  and  had  grown 

To  an  undoubting  faith. 

Methought  that  star, 
As  in  a  vision  of  the  night  I  lay, 
Stood  with  its  train  directed  to  the  earth, 
And  every  moment  it  did  spread  itself, 
And  grew  a  deeper  crimson.     Where  I  was 
I  could  not  tell ;  but  I  stood  gazing  on  it 
With  unaverted  eye,  and  I  could  watch  it 
Taking  ten  thousand  fiery  shapes,  and  changing 
To  every  terrible  hue  and  form,  and  still 
Widening  and  widening  out  its  burning  orb, 
Till  a  whole  quarter  of  the  heavens  was  red 
And  glowing  like  a  furnace.     Then,  methought, 
A  form  stood  visible  within  it,  vast 
And  indistinct,  as  a  far  mountain  seen 
Through  a  dense  vapour,  when  the  morning  strikes  it, 


109 

And  makes  it  such  a  thing  as  the  mind  frames, 
When  it  goes  wandering  through  the  infinite, 
And  builds  on  dreams.     I  gazed  upon  it,  charmed 
And  fascinated  by  its  terrible  glory, 
And  with  it  such  a  sense  of  fear,  the  drops 
Stood  thick  upon  my  forehead,  and  my  heart 
Was  near  to  bursting.     'T  was  an  agony 
Of  wonder  and  of  death  ;  for  I  beheld 
Already  come  the  day  of  doom,  and  earth 
Seemed  parched  and  burnt  by  the  intensity 
Of  that  approaching  flame.     The  sky  above 
Was  like  a  vaulted  furnace,  and  it  quivered 
And  sparkled  in  the  heat,  and  at  the  center, 
Transparent  in  the  fierceness  of  its  fire, 
Still  that  illimitable  form  did  frown 
Blacker  than  tenfold  night.     His  quick  approach 
Left  me  no  time  to  scan  him,  but  he  seemed 
To  gather  in  himself  all  I  had  heard 
Or  dreamed  of  horrible.     A  muttering  sound, 
Like  that  of  far-off  winds,  or  smothered  flame 
Roaring  in  caves — a  sound  that  fell  like  fate 
On  my  stunned  ear,  came  as  a  warning  voice, 
That  earth  was  now  within  the  wasting  sphere 
Of  that  consuming  plague.     At  once  the  wind 
Seemed  to  blow  over  me,  with  hot,  thick  breath, 
Wafting  such  clouds  of  smoke  and  sheets  of  fire, 
That  all  around  me  seemed  one  conflagration  ; 
And  even  the  firm  foundations  of  the  hills 
Cracked  and  fell  inward,  and  one  long,  long  peal 
10 


110 


Gave  warning,  that  this  ponderous  globe  was  rent 
And  shivered.     Suddenly  a  burst  of  flame, 
So  clear  and  strong,  no  thought  can  image  it, 
Filled  the  whole  visible  space  ;  and  still  it  flashed, 
And  flashed,  till  in  an  instant  utter  darkness 
Closed  heavily  around  me,  and  I  woke  : 
I  woke,  and  yet  the  horrors  of  that  dream 
Would  visit  me  at  times,  even  when  I  grew 
To  know  its  causes,  and  could  reason  of  it ; 
And  though  the  mind  moved  in  its  own  pure  light, 
And  stood  aloof  from  fear,  yet  there  were  moments, 
When  the  dark  memory  of  this  dream  would  quell  me 
Well  nigh  to  trembling. 


DREAMS. 

Aut  quse  sopitos  deludunt  Somnia  sensus. 
I. 

METH  OUGHT  rt  was  night ;  and  my  unquiet  spirit 

Stood  in  the  silent  presence  of  a  Power 

Invisible,  though  felt.     There  was  no  voice, 

And  yet  unutterable  thoughts  came  o'er  me, 

Accompanied  by  feelings,  such  as  grow 

From  some  unearthly  music.     There  were  words 

Spoken  as  in  the  fever  of  a  dream, 

Breathless  and  indistinct,  yet  full  of  awe 

High  and  mysterious.     The  air  was  full 

Of  sights,  that  scarce  were  seen,  dim  images, 


11] 


Crowding  from  out  the  depth  of  darkness,  wild 
And  terrible,  though  calm.     They  looked  upon  me 
Intensely,  and  they  seemed  to  beckon  me 
Thoughtful  and  sad.     No  utterance  meanwhile 
Told  me  their  wishes,  but  they  made  themselves 
Visible  to  me  in  their  gathering  brows 
And  lowering  glances.     Then  they  waved  me  on 
To  follow  them,  and  like  a  vanishing  troop 
Of  shadows,  mingled  in  the  thicker  shades, 
And  all  were  lost.     A  deeper  darkness  hung 
Around  me,  like  a  burden,  and  it  seemed 
To  close  me  in  a  prison,  like  the  grave, 
Narrow  and  cold.     A  damp  and  deathly  chill 
Ran  through  me,  and  methought  the  earth  beneath 
Sunk,  and  the  utter  night,  that  circled  me, 
Grew  thicker,  till  all  thoughts  were  objectless, 
And  memory  vanished.     All  the  little  light, 
That  centered  in  my  brain,  seemed  like  a  taper 
Amid  the  vapours  of  a  charnel-house, 
Quivering  and  pale  ;  a  blue,  unearthly  flame 
Hovers  awhile  above  it,  and  it  falls 
Beneath  the  dank  oppression,  and  then  dies. 
So  thought,  and  life,  and  all  their  energies 
Trembled  awhile,  and  hung  upon  their  close, 
And  then  went  out.     I  lay  entranced,  I  know  not 
If  hours  or  ages — not  a  sleep  of  dreams, 
Busy  and  full  of  forms  and  phantasies, 
But  blank  and  desolate,  without  a  motion, 
Even  in  the  spirit's  core — an  utter  death, 
That  leaves  no  memory  of  itself,  and  makes 


112 


Myriads  of  years  a  moment.     So  I  lay, 

Forgotten  and  alone.     Methought  a  stir 

Came  to  my  heart  and  brain,  and  some  dim  feelings 

Were  moving  there,  faint  as  the  light  of  shadows, 

When  night  is  deepest,  and  the  waning  moon 

Hurries  behind  a  cloud.     They  grew  upon  me, 

And  there  was  light  and  joy, — a  happy  dream, 

Confused  and  shapeless,  but  a  dream  of  days 

That  are  to  us  our  heaven ;  the  early  days 

Of  wonder  and  of  hope,  the  blissful  days 

Of  buoyancy  and  love,  unspeakable 

And  holy  love,  stainless,  and  bright,  and  pure — 

The  heart's  devotion.     They  were  in  my  dreams 

Struggling  to  life,  and  taking,  every  moment, 

A  fairer  being.     I  was  on  the  hills, 

Methought ;  and  it  was  Spring ;  and  one  sweet  bird 

Settled  beside  me,  on  a  flowering  thorn, 

And  sang  how  softly.     Then  the  morning  came, 

And  there  was  brightness,  and  the  kindling  clouds 

Were  pearl,  and  gold,  and  flame  ;  and  then  the  sun 

Rolled  up,  and  all  was  day.     An  avenue 

Of  ancient  elms  bent  over  me  their  boughs, 

And  the  slant  light  came  underneath  the  arch, 

And  tinted  all  the  leaves,  the  quivering  leaves, 

With  rainbows,  till  a  vault  of  liquid  fire 

Seemed  lifted  round  me,  and  I  walked  unhurt 

Amid  the  glorious  furnace.     There  was  magic 

And  wonder  in  the  hour ;  and  then  I  looked 

On  the  calm  ocean,  like  a  burnished  sheet 

Of  emerald,  and  all  its  long,  long  waves 


113 


Were  ridged  with  flame  ;  and  by  me  flowed  a  brook, 

Prattling  its  merry  tale  to  the  cool  winds, 

That  shook  the  grass  and  flowers,  that  stood  around  it 

To  gaze  upon  its  mirror,  and  behold, 

Narcissus-like,  their  beauty ;  and  it  wound 

Its  way  unto  a  meadow,  all  one  bed 

Of  glancing  diamonds.     >T  was  a  dream  of  light, 

And  soon  as  full  of  love.     Methought  a  voice, 

A  well-known  voice,  a  voice  of  very  sweetness, 

So  tender,  that  I  felt  the  first  fresh  tears 

Flow  at  its  touch  of  music,  and  dissolve  me 

In  the  young  happiness,  once  known,  and  then 

For  ever  gone — methought  that  tender  voice 

Came  from  a  wood  hard  by  ;  and  it  was  singing 

Catches  of  old  familiar  tunes,  the  treasures 

Of  infant  memory,  that  warble  on 

In  the  bright  stream  of  innocent  joys,  through  all 

Our  darker  years,  and  hold  their  unchecked  way 

Even  to  the  old  man's  grave.     I  heard  that  voice — 

And  then  awoke  within  me  such  a  flow 

Of  passionate  thoughts,  blended  of  bright  and  dark, 

Gentle  and  wild,  a  flood,  that  long  had  swelled 

And  borne  me  on  its  crest,  till  it  became 

A  sea  of  cloud  and  storm,  that,  in  the  grasp 

And  agony  of  passion,  and  the  last 

Fixed  struggle  of  despair,  again  the  light 

Faded  around  me,  and  I  sank  once  more 

In  night  and  horror. 

10* 


114 


ii. 

DARKNESS  was  thick  around  me,  as  of  oldr 

In  Egypt,  it  was  felt.     No  glimmering  lamp. 

Nor  solitary  star-light  found  its  way 

Through  the  dim  shadows  that  encompassed  me, 

But  all  was  waste  and  void — a  desolation 

Without  a  form  or  voice — a  deathlike  silence, 

Where  even  the  waters  had  forgot  to  flow, 

And  winds  to  whisper, — such  a  total  silence, 

My  breathing  startled  me,  although  I  held  it 

In  fear  and  awe.     The  heavens  had  vanished  then, 

And  earth  was  gone,  only  the  foothold,  where 

I  stood  and  dared  not  move, — in  like  suspense, 

As  when  upon  a  mountain  crag,  a  mist 

Sweeps  suddenly  around  the  hunter's  path, 

And  hides  the  precipice  and  dread  descent, 

Where  all  is  death, — he  pauses,  and  awaits 

The  passing  of  the  vapour,  till  it  rolls 

Its  heavy  wreaths  around  the  glacier  heights, 

And  all  at  once  reveals  the  dark  abyss 

Below  him,  where  he  hung  close  on  the  verge, 

And  knew  not  of  his  danger ;  such  a  fear 

And  wild  suspense  held  me,  and  then  I  stood 

Waiting  for  morning,  while  the  laggard  hours 

Seemed  lengthened  out  to  ages.     Who  has  felt 

The  sickening  doubt,  the  cold  uncertainty, 

The  dying  of  all  hope,  when  we  have  seen 

Day  after  day  pass  on,  and  yet  no  sight* 


115 

No  tidings  of  the  expected  happiness, 

On  which  our  being  rested,  we  had  fixed  it 

So  deeply  in  our  hearts, — he  only  knows 

How  much  I  suffered  in  those  long,  dull  hours, 

That  heavily  dragged  on,  and  brought  no  dawn, 

No  token  of  it ;  still  the  same  blank  void 

Closed  me,  and  narrowed  to  a  sepulchre's 

Scant  compass  all  the  universe  to  me  ; 

And  left  me  nothing  but  to  count  my  pulses, 

And  tell  my  hours  by  throbs.     The  air  seemed  thick 

And  deathly,  and  a  sense  of  suffocation 

Pressed  on  me,  like  a  mountain's  weight,  and  bore  me 

Seemingly  down  a  gulf,  from  which  I  struggled 

To  lift  me  ;  but  the  ever-backward  plunge 

Hurried  me,  like  the  rushing  of  a  torrent, 

Farther  and  farther  from  all  hope  of  light 

Or  the  sweet  face  of  heaven.     O  !  had  a  star, 

A  single  lonely  star;  one  of  the  smallest, 

That  scarcely  twinkles,  when  the  winter's  night 

Is  clearest,  and  there  is  no  moon  to  shade 

The  lesser  lights,  and  the  bright  evening  planet 

Has  set,  and  Jove  not  mounted  yet  his  throne, 

And  made  his  vassals  dim — had  such  a  star 

Broke  out  a  moment,  from  the  thick  obscure, 

To  tell  me  where  to  look  upon  the  sky, 

And;  in  that  utter  void,  forget  not  where 

To  wait  the  dawning.  I  had  then  had  hope, 

And  not  been  wholly  desolate  ;  and  yet 

None  greeted  me,  but  all  was  like  a  chaos, 


116 


After  its  waves  have  settled  to  a  calm, 

And  even  the  swell,  that  follows  on  the  storm, 

Subsided  into  stillness. 

Then,  methought, 

I  heard  a  sound,  like  the  far  roar  of  winds 
Amid  the  forest  oaks,  when  the  whole  sea 
Of  branches  tosses,  as  the  coming  tempest 
Stoops  from  its  car  of  clouds,  and  scourges  them, 
Till  the  wide  wilderness  bows  to  the  dust 
Before  its  anger.     Such  a  hollow  sound 
Rolled  onward,  and  yet  louder  every  moment, 
Seemed  like  the  rush  of  myriad  wings,  or  sweep 
Of  mailed  horsemen,  when  the  beaten  plain 
Trembles,  and,  in  the  mid  encounter,  wide 
Their  armour  shocks  and  rings.     A  breathless  fear, 
A  terror  that  had  winged  my  flying  feet, 
Had  not  the  deeper  dread  of  what  I  knew  not 
Beyond  the  point  I  stood  on,  held  me  fixed 
And  rooted  to  the  ground,  and  with  it,  too, 
A  mingled  feeling  of  desire  and  hope, 
Wakened  me  from  my  trance,  and  turned  me  whence 
The  rushing  came.     Methought  the  darkness  seemed 
To  fade,  and  from  its  womb  a  glimmering  rose, 
Pale  and  uncertain,  as  the  flitting  glance 
Of  moonlight  through  a  storm.     Anon  it  took 
More  fixedness,  and  then  it  reared  itself 
Into  a  dreamy  shape,  a  wavering  form, 
Hovering  in  mist  far  on  the  sleeping  waves, 
When  night  is  deep,  and  all  the  light  in  heaven 


117 

Just  gives  a  visible  outline,  so  that  earth 

Seems  like  a  land  of  shadows.     Then  it  stood 

Before  me,  and  a  chill  and  spectral  glare 

Invested  it,  and  as  it  onward  drew, 

With  ominous  bearing,  I  could  dimly  catch 

Traces  of  human  likeness,  yet  it  seemed 

More  like  a  moon-struck  ghost,  than  living  thing ; 

For  there  was  not  a  motion  in  its  limbs, 

Gesture,  or  step,  but  it  seemed  borne  along 

On  the  swift  tide  of  air — its  glaring  eyeballs 

Rolled  not,  and  had  no  meaning,  but  they  stared, 

Like  a  blind  statue's,  with  everted  lids, 

Glassy  and  cold,  and  from  its  bloodless  lips 

There  seemed  to  come  no  voice,  for  they  were  still, 

And  yet  stood  open,  like  the  last  fixed  gasp 

Of  dissolution.     Soon  the  vision  neared  me, 

And  then  I  heard  a  low  and  muttering  sound, 

Like  the  faint  utterance  of  forbidden  charms, 

When,  even  herself  in  fear,  the  sorceress 

Evokes  the  shades  of  hell,  or  calls  the  spirits, 

Whose  dwelling  is  in  air.     Then,  as  I  heard  it, 

I  started  and  looked  round  me  ;  for  no  breath 

Quivered  upon  those  ashy  lips,  and  yet 

I  knejv  the  voice  came  from  them,  and  it  sounded 

Hollow,  as  from  the  tomb  :     "  Creature  of  earth, 

Child  of  despair  and  fear,  of  doubt  and  madness, 

I  bid  thee  follow  me  ;  the  spell  is  on  thee, 

And  where  I  go,  thou  must  perforce  attend  me  ; 

And  I  will  show  thee  such  unearthly  things, 


118 


As  will  not  leave  thee  to  thy  dying  day, 

But  haunt  thee  like  the  secret  consciousness 

Of  undiscovered  crime."     He  said  ;  and  then 

Turned  from  me,  and  went  moving  through  the  darkness, 

Lofty  and  proud.     At  once  I  felt  myself 

Lifted,  as  by  the  sweeping  of  a  tempest, 

And  borne  along  so  rapidly,  my  breath 

And  sense  were  lost.     Awhile  I  knew  of  nothing, 

But  that  my  flight  was  onward  ;  then  my  brain 

Grew  wonted  to  the  change,  and  fined  itself, 

So  that  all  objects  took  a  startling  clearness, 

Though  seen  in  deepest  shade.     A  magic  world 

Seemed  bursting  into  being,  wondrous,  wild, 

Majestic,  beautiful,  obscure,  and  dark, 

Then  bright  to  dazzling.     Countless  images 

Crowded  before  me,  till  the  eye  was  weary 

In  looking  onward  through  the  living  sea, 

That  rolled  upon  me,  like  the  toppling  waves 

Heaved  from  the  womb  of  ocean,  surge  on  surge, 

To  burst  upon  the  shore.     I  hurried  by  them, 

And  back  they  rushed  behind  me,  like  the  hills, 

And  groves,  and  towns,  and  spires,  when  borne  along 

The  bosom  of  some  mighty  stream  by  winds 

That  send  the  vessel  through  the  frothy  waves, 

Like  a  shaft  winged  with  fate.     It  were  a  tale 

Too  high  for  mortal  utterance,  to  tell 

The  shapes  that  met  me,  and  they  ravished  me 

With  such  unearthly  joy,  the  vision  melted 

In  its  own  fervour,  and  I  found  myself 

Alone  in  darkness. 


119 


in. 

I  HAD  a  dream  of  music  and  of  song. 

Methought  one  thrill  of  general  harmony 

Pervaded  all  the  region,  and  the  winds 

Were  all  attuned,  each  to  its  several  part, 

As  if  some  master  spirit  had  controlled 

Their  sounds  to  one  accord.     Fast  flowing  waves 

Seemed  rolling  from  an  ocean,  whose  deep  heart 

Fed  them  and  never  failed  ;  and  they  came  onward, 

Each  with  its  crown  of  foam  ;  and  as  they  struck 

The  shaken  shore,  their  burst  was  like  the  echo 

Of  organ  notes  in  heaven — majestic  sounds, 

Awful  and  terrible,  yet  far  and  sweet 

As  the  last  pause  of  thunder,  when  it  sinks 

In  the  embrace  of  silence.     So  my  ear 

Seemed  full  to  overflowing  with  these  strains 

Of  modulated  sound — loud  airy  swells, 

And  solemn  pauses — touches,  as  if  made 

By  a  most  gentle  hand  ;  then  lingering  peals, 

That  died  away  in  echoes  ;  and  again 

Soft  stealing  symphonies,  that  wound  their  way 

Into  my  heart,  like  Zephyr,  when  he  haunts 

The  first  blown  field  of  spring,  in  fond  delay 

Pausing  at  every  flower,  and  loading  thence 

His  wings  with  balm. 

As  yet  there  was  no  vision, 
But  deep  and  utter  night — the  night  of  Hades, 
Through  which  the  bodiless  spirits  make  their  way, 


120 


Unheard,  unseen,  and  one  impervious  veil 

Of  darkness  covers  all.     The  music  paused, 

And  all  was  one  deep  hush — so  deep  and  still, 

The  beating  of  my  heart  was  audible, 

And  my  own  breathing  mingled  in  my  dreams 

Like  the  far  rush  of  waters.     Then  there  came 

A  solemn  march  of  melody,  a  flow 

Of  faint  unearthly  warblings,  like  the  sighs 

Of  sorrowing  ghosts  ;  and  these  stole  through  my  brain, 

Like  lapsing  fountains  ;  and  anon  there  rushed 

One  tide  of  sound,  that  poured  its  airy  surges 

Into  my  inmost  soul.     And  as  the  curtain 

Rolls  up  its  shadowy  folds,  and  slowly  opens 

The  glories  of  the  scene,  far  back  retiring 

In  avenues  of  pomp,  and  fading  off 

In  the  blue  tint  of  mountains,  where  some  rock 

Catches  the  coming  dawn,  all  else  below 

Cradled  in  slumbering  shade,  so,  it  meseemed, 

The  vision  opened  on  me.     Faint  and  chill 

It  rose  before  me  ;  and  its  floating  forms 

Drew  their  dim  outlines  on  a  cold  wan  heaven, 

Where  neither  moon,  nor  star,  nor  even  dawn 

Gave  light  and  hope — one  rayless  blank,  embracing 

Within  its  leaden  cope,  shapes  indistinct, 

Confused  and  void — a  chaos,  like  the  dreams 

That  haunt  a  sick  man's  couch — a  waste  of  shadows, 

Like  mountains  in  a  storm,  swelling  and  heaving, 

Broader  and  higher  still,  their  giant  peaks, 

Till  the  eye  shrinks  from  gazing.     So  it  rose, 


121 


That  visionary  pomp,  and  stood  awhile 
In  terrible  obscure  ;  but  then  it  seemed 
As  if  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  dawn 
Unveiled  their  kindly  beams,  and  sent  abroad 
The  charm  of  early  day.     Soft  lights  and  shadows 
3\ow  parted  from  each  other,  till  they  took 
Distinct  and  certain  shapes  ;  and  then  a  world 
Of  beauty  lay  before  me.     0  !  how  calm 
And  still  it  lay — an  infant  world,  reposing 
In  its  fresh  dewy  cradle,  hung  with  flowers, 
And  rocked  by  summer  winds,  such  as  in  June 
Crisp  the  smoothed  ocean,  till  it  smiles  and  kisses 
The  green  embracing  shore. 

Methought  I  stood 

Somewhere  above  it,  and  it  stretched  beneath  me 
In  beautiful  stillness  ;  for  no  living  sound 
Stole  upward  on  the  motionless  atmosphere, 
That  circled  it  as  with  a  brooding  wing, 
And  hushed  it  all  to  peace.     Far  off  it  lay, 
Too  far  to  give  the  fainter  lineaments, 
But  the  broad  outline  ;  that  was  broad  and  clear — • 
Clear,  as  at  noon,  the  ridges  and  the  vales, 
On  the  blue  mountain,  sloping  to  the  sun 
Its  walls,  a  nation's  bulwarks  ;  liker  still 
That  mountain,  when  it  comes  in  the  den^e  air, 
That  with  a  crystalline  brightness  ushers  in 
The  invisible  storm — when  it  comes  drawing  near  us, 
Till  the  eye  looks  into  its  closest  dells, 
And  sees  the  fountain  flowing  so  at  hand, 
11 


122 

That  fancy  hears  it  murmur.     Thus  it  lay 

In  the  new  dawn — but  soon  a  cone  of  flame 

Rose  up  behind  a  circling  ridge  that  closed 

The  bosom  of  a  vale,  and  poured  abroad 

Rich  golden  waves,  wherewith  the  mountain  peaks 

And  lowest  hollows  kindled  up,  and  shone 

In  more  than  dazzling  brightness — burnished  gold 

And  liquid  trembling  silver,  so  the  rocks 

And  winding  rivers  shone  ;  and  far  away 

Lay  the  wide  sweep  of  ocean,  like  a  sheet 

Of  molten  glass,  and  all  its  islands  burnt 

Cerulean,  like  the  many  hues  that  play 

On  the  hot  gush  of  steel. 

Such  was  the  pomp 

That  ushered  in  the  day  :  but  wrhen  the  sun 
Had  come  abroad,  and  now  in  the  wide  heaven 
Held  on  his  lordly  way,  these  glorious  hues 
Were  faded,  and  a  clear  and  steady  light 
Settled  on  all  below.     Methought  I  sank 
Slowly  to  earth,  as  through  the  summer  air 
Floats  the  light  plume,  or  from  his  heavenward  seat 
An  angel  stoops  to  be  the  messenger 
Of  love  and  joy.     So  gently  I  descended 
Into  a  flowery  plain.     Then  rose  around  me 
A  spacious  theatre  of  wood  and  mountain, 
Stage  over  stage,  from  the  low  shrub  that  blooms 
Beside  the  hunter's  path,  up  to  the  rocks 
With  forehead  bald  and  bare.     Not  long  I  stood, 
Before  a  strain  of  music  flowed  from  out 


128 


The  forest,  as  if  harps  and  voices  joined 

In  one  unearthly  song.     It  had  the  power 

Of  magic,  for  at  once  my  eyes  were  closed 

On  all  the  beauty,  that  with  near  embrace 

Threw  round  its  circling  arms.     The  waving  woods, 

Fresh  flowers,  and  gurgling  brooks,  and  rustling  winds 

Had  vanished,  and  my  spirit,  at  the  sound 

Transported,  saw  another  world,  and  heard 

That  music  all  alone. 

There  lay  before  me 

A  broad  bright  river,  glancing  to  the  morn 
In  silent  motion ;  waving  to  and  fro, 
Not  in  the  wind,  for  the  tall  palm  tops  stood 
Still,  as  if  pillared  marble,  and  the  canes 
Shook  not  their  spiry  blades — not  even  a  ripple 
Gurgled  along  the  shore  ;  but  to  and  fro 
Slowly  it  waved,  and  from  its  sloping  mirror 
Sent  back  the  coming  day.     Masses  of  shade 
Lay  on  the  sleeping  water,  and  between 
Opened  its  depths,  how  clear — far  down  the  heavens 
Were  vaulted,  and  the  bands  of  lazy  clouds, 
All  in  their  gorgeous  trim,  went  moving  by 
With  scarce  perceptible  motion,  and  their  trains 
Waved,  like  the  heavy  banner  of  a  ship 
Down-rolling  from  the  top-mast,  when  the  calm 
Has  only  breath  enough  to  bend  its  folds 
In  slow  meanderings,  and  its  stars  shine  out 
A  momentary  glance,  and  then  retire, 
And  twinkle  then  again,  even  as  at  night 


124 


The  stars  dance  on  a  fountain.     Smooth  it  spread. 

That  river,  and  the  lotus  leaves  and  flowers 

Covered  its  quiet  bays  with  broidery 

Of  blue  and  scarlet,  on  a  ground  of  purple 

And  virgin  green ;  and  with  the  long  slow  swell 

They  turned  their  mirrors  sunward,  one  short  flash, 

And  then  fell  back  in  shade.     A  tall  pagoda 

Rose  opposite,  and  stretched  its  frowning  walls, 

And  lifted  high  its  pyramids,  o'erfretted 

With  a  wild  waste  of  dreams  ;  and  high  above 

Glittered  the  golden  trident,  for  the  sun 

Had  risen  there,  in  all  that  burst  of  power 

Had  risen,  with  which  he  rushes  on  the  heaven 

In  equatorial  climes.     This  was  the  hour 

Of  prayer,  and  many  white-robed  devotees 

Came  to  the  river's  brink,  to  sip  its  wave 

And  bathe  them  in  its  waters.     Then  I  saw 

One  like  a  nymph  in  shape,  yet  darkly  tinted, 

Sit  on  the  shady  shore.     She  wove  a  crown 

Of  starry  flowers,  and  twined  it  gracefully 

Over  her  locks  of  jet ;  then  to  the  east 

She  turned,  and  sung  her  hymn, 

"  Forth  from  thy  mountain  throne 
Advance  along  thy  starry-vaulted  way, 
Thou  burning  Lord  of  day ! 

Thou  boldest  on  alone, 
And  all  the  gods  of  darkness  steal  away. 
Before  thy  luminous  ray 

Night  and  her  shades  are  flown, 


125 

Forth  from  the  Swerga's  bowers 
Thou  issuest  in  thy  robe  of  flame  ; 

And  over  heaven's  blue  lotus  flowers 
Rush  the  wild  steeds,  no  other  hand  can  tame. 
They  champ,  they  snort,  they  blow  ; 

They  heave  their  winnowing  manes  ; 
And  round  thy  wheels,  in  sparkling  showers. 
Perpetual  streams  of  lightning  flow, 
And  fill  yon  azure  plains. 

Thy  beamy  car  descends, 
And  gliding  o'er  the  forest  trees, 

To  the  still  river  bends, 
Up-curling  with  the  newly  wakened  breeze. 
Over  its  bright  expanse 
Thy  bounding  coursers  dance, 
And  sweep  the  rolling  foam  before  thy  path. 
They  hurry,  hurry  by  ; 
I  hear  the  chariot's  thunder  nigh  : 
I  see  the  radiant  God  ; 
He  lifts  his  golden  rod — 
How  terrible  the  flashing  of  his  eye ! 
SURYA,  Lord  of  day,  retain  thy  wrath — 
Send  forth  thy  light  to  bless,  and  not  to  scath." 

Her  song  had  ceased, 
Its  magic  ended  ;  but  another  spell 
At  once  was  on  me.     Then,  rnethought,  a  garden 
Spread  out  its  avenues,  o'erarched  with  planes, 

11* 


126 


And  filled  with  citron  flowers.     One  ancient  tree 

Towered  over  me,  and  threw  its  shadow  broad 

And  deep  below.     Beneath  it  flowed  a  fountain 

Hewn  from  a  natural  rock,  and  by  it  rose 

A  tomb,  plain  wrought  in  marble,  turban-crowned, 

And  on  it  carved,  "  GOLGHESHTI  MUSELLA.RA." 

This  was  the  tomb  of  Hafiz — these  the  walks 

Of  roses,  by  the  fountain  Mosellay, 

Dearer  to  him  than  bowers  of  Paradise, 

The  eastern  heaven  of  love.     Far  round  me  lay 

One  harvest  of  ripe  roses,  sending  out 

Their  vaporous  dew&  in  one  invisible  cloud 

Of  odorous  bliss.     The  silence  and  the  calm, 

The  coolness  and  the  shade,  the  sweet  low  sound 

Of  the  still  flowing  fountain,  and  the  breath 

Of  a  faint  wind  that  panted  through  the  thickets, 

Were  beautiful.     They  sank  upon  my  soul, 

Like  dews  on  withering  flowers.     They  quickened  me, 

And  freshened  all  my  thoughts — and  then  a  voice 

Came  from  the  garden,  silver-toned  and  clear, 

But  melancholy  sweet,  and  often  choked 

By  stifling  sobs,  as  if  the  bulbul  wooed 

And  languished  for  his  rose,  or  as  the  dove 

Gurgles  around  his  mate,  or  sadly  mourns 

His  widowed  nest,  and  makes  the  twilight  wood 

Responsive  to  his  sighs.     Slowly  it  came 

On  through  the  vaulted  alleys,  till  a  group 

Of  maidens,  veiled  and  fearful,  from  the  bowers 

Stepped  cautious  forth.     On  to  the  Poet's  tomh 


127 


They  glided,  and  low  bowed  their  offerings  gave 
Of  garlands  silken-twined,  and  with  them  dressed 
Their  favourite  shrine  ;  then  throwing  back  their  veils 
Revealed  their  sunny  locks,  and  full  black  eyes, 
Soft  as  the  dove's,  and  rich  in  starry  light 
As  the  gazel's.     So  to  the  fountain  bending, 
They  dipped  their  pictured  vases,  and  then  rose 
And  sprinkled  all  their  wreaths,  and  bade  them  hang 
Fresh  till  the  coming  dawn — then  round  the  tomb 
They  linked  their  hands,  and  slowly  moving  sang 
Their  pious  hymn. 

"  0  !  weave  the  Poet's  tomb  with  flowers, 
And  bring  it  water  from  the  spring  ; 
And  ever  with  the  dawning  day, 
0  !  let  us  haunt  these  lonely  bowers, 
And  on  our  withering  garlands  fling 
The  freshening  dew  of  Moseilay. 

He  best  deserves  a  maiden's  heart, 
Who  teaches  best  her  heart  to  love. 

0  !  how  can  she  so  well  repay 
The  bard  who  taught  the  gentle  art — 
0  !  can  she  give  him  aught  above 
The  freshening  dew  of  Moseilay. 

He  loved  this  calm  and  cool  retreat, 
And  with  his  friend  and  mistress  oft 
In  music  passed  the  summer  day. 


128 

In  vain  the  noonbeam  fiercely  beat — 
He  only  felt  it  murmuring  soft, 
The  gushing  dew  of  Mosellay. 

And  then  he  crowned  his  bowl  with  wine, 
And  pressed  it  to  his  maiden's  lip — 

She  smiled,  and  moved  the  gift  away. 
A  maiden,  who  would  seem  divine, 
Had  better  fill  her  bowl,  and  sip 

The  freshening  dew  of  Mosellay. 

O  !  gentle  bard  of  joy  and  love — 
A  gentle  heart  can  only  feel 

Thy  sweetness,  and  alone  repay. 
0  !  may  we,  like  the  trembling  dove, 
From  care  and  tumult  often  steal 
Beneath  the  bowers  of  Mosellay." 

Another  change — the  desert, 
Wide  as  an  ocean,  indistinct  and  dim 
Beneath  the  moon,  now  full,  but  hanging  low 
In  the  pale  west.     A  well — its  clustered  palms, 
Tall  columns,  throwing  far  upon  the  sands 
Their  shadows,  and  the  stars  between  their  leaves 
Coming  and  going.     All  beneath  in  sleep — 
A  wandering  tribe,  stretched  round  the  stifled  glow 
Of  a  half  covered  fire,  and  quietly 
Behind  them  in  a  circle,  deep  reposing, 
Their  only  friends,  their  camels  and  their  steeds, 


129 


Harnessed  and  ready.     Not  unguarded  rest 

The  wanderers,  but  a  sentinel  apart, 

With  spear  uplifted,  watches  through  the  night, 

With  the  keen  tiger's  instinct,  and  afar 

Catches  the  faintest  sound,  and  quick  espies 

The  smallest  creature,  on  the  very  verge 

Of  the  encircling  waste.     There  on  his  watch, 

I  hear  him  cheat  his  weary  hours,  with  tales 

Slow  chaunted,  and  with  songs  of  love  and  sorrow, 

The  treasures  of  his  tribe,  from  age  to  age 

Transmitted  even  with  awe.     A  mournful  air, 

Wrell  suited  to  his  utter  loneliness, 

Is  now  his  pastime  ;  sung  so  faint  and  low, 

It  rather  seems  but  sighs — some  captive's  song, 

In  a  far  distant  land. 

"  My  father's  tent  is  far  away, 

And  they  are  weeping  there  ; 
And  often,  often,  do  they  say, 

"  Where  is  our  Kaled,  where  ]" 

My  master  tells  me  to  forget 

My  home,  my  own  dear  home — 

"  Why  would st  thou  close  thy  heart,  nor  let 
Another  fondness  come  ]" 

And  Leila,  then,  his  dark  eyed  girl, 

Sits  blushing  by  her  sire — 
I  know  that  sire  is  not  a  churl ; 

Can  love  be  pointed  higher  ? 


130 

But  Leila,  fair,  and  sweet,  and  young, 

And  gentle  as  a  fawn — 
Though  fairer  poet  never  sung, 

Though  fresh  as  early  dawn — 

0  !  Leila,  think  not  of  my  heart — 

I  left  my  heart  at  home — 
0  !  from  my  home  it  could  not  part — 

My  spirit  could  not  roam. 

A  fairer  and  a  sweeter  one 
Has  all  my  fondness  there — 

And,  "  0  !"  she  often  sighs  alone, 
"  Where  is  my  Kaled,  where  ]" 

Another  change—- 

A  valley,  freshly  green,  and  girdled  round 
With  white  rocks,  tufted  o'er  with  feathery  ferns 
And  rambling  vines,  and  at  their  foot  a  cave, 
The  issue  of  a  spring,  clear  bubbling  out 
In  a  perennial  flow.     Religious  hands 
Have  arched  it  over,  for  a  fount,  a  well, 
In  such  a  thirsty  land,  is  loved  and  cherished, 
As  a  choice  gift  of  heaven.     A  date-tree  bends 
Its  clustered  fruit,  and  nard  and  cassia  scent 
The  ever  dewy  air.     The  bibulous  turf 
Catches  the  rolling  moisture,  as  it  glances 
O'er  the  bright  pebbles,  down  the  winding  dell, 
Till  one  intensest  verdure  tapestries 


131 


The  level  lawn.     Between  the  parting  hills, 

Off  stretching  into  dimness,  opens  out 

A  sweep  of  plain,  spotted  with  clumps  of  palms, 

White  cottages  and  dovecotes,  avenues 

Of  sycamores,  and  woods  of  olives  blue 

With  their  autumnal  load,  and  vineyards  hung 

On  the  slope  mountains  ;  in  the  midst,  the  walls, 

And  towers,  and  temple-tops,  and  pinnacles 

Of  a  wide  city,  sitting  like  a  queen 

Amid  her  beautiful  fields,  and  shining  bright 

In  the  low  evening  sun.     Around  it  flows 

A  wandering  river,  hidden  now  beneath 

Its  willows,  now  out-flashing  like  a  gush 

From  the  tapped  furnace,  now  its  course  revealing, 

By  wilderness  and  garden,  ever  fed 

From  out  its  quickening  wave — still  further  winding, 

Like  a  gilt  serpent,  through  a  naked  plain, 

On  to  a  lake,  now  bright,  but  dimly  fading 

Into  a  boundless  blue.     Up  in  that  cove, 

On  whose  encircling  battlements  the  cedar 

Nods  to  the  evening  wind,  and  the  set  sun 

Gilds  with  a  fringe  of  gold  the  tall  grey  rocks, 

^ow  glittering,  though  beneath  them  all  is  dim 

And  shadowy  cool — up  in  that  cove,  a  tent 

Is  planted  for  the  night,  and  round  it  throng 

A  shepherd's  train — his  children  and  his  dogs 

Busy  at  play,  his  ruminant  sheep  reposing 

Under  the  shelving  walls,  with  here  and  there 

A  lordly  ram.  gazing  upon  his  likeness 

In  the  deep  mirrored  pool,  and  seeming  half 


132 


Intent  on  war — a  patriarchal  scene, 

Like  that  of  old,  when  Abraham  fed  his  flocks 

In  Mamre.     'Tis  the  hour  of  evening  prayer — 

A  reverent  pause — and  then  the  loud  clear  voice 

Comes  up  amid  those  rocks,  to  him  who  rules 

Alone  in  heaven,  and  after  it  a  hymn 

Low  sung  by  gentle  voices.     From  the  tent 

Flows  the  soft  melody,  more  touching  sweet, 

For  the  veiled  mystery,  within  whose  shade 

So  much  of  beauty  breathes. 

With  that  low  hymn, 

Came  darkness  to  my  dream  ;  and  all  the  pomp 
Of  mountain,  forest,  vale,  and  ocean,  faded 
Slowly  and  solemnly  away,  and  vanished 
In  utter  gloom.     As  after  many  a  train 
Of  bright  illusions,  cities,  camps,  and  caves, 
Dark  robbers,  helmed  hosts,  and  monarchs  seated 
Proud  on  their  thrones — after  gay  sights  and  sounds, 
The  measured  march,  the  merry  dance,  the  rush 
And  clash  of  battle — when  the  eye  is  fixed 
Intensely  on  the  full  catastrophe, 
Glad  for  relief,  yet  lingering  o'er  the  scene 
Of  false  but  real  wo — slowly  descends 
The  curtain's  massy  folds,  and  to  the  sound 
Of  distant  music,  one  by  one  withdraws 
Each  glittering  pomp,  till  dark  before  us  hangs 
A  fune-  al  pall,  as  if  in  mockery 
Of  this  poor  world — so  from  my  spirit's  eye 
My  dream  withdrew,  and  to  the  still  repose 
Of  midnight  left  me. 


133 

SONNETS. 


IF,  on  the  clustering  curls  of  thy  dark  hair, 
And  the  pure  arching  of  thy  polished  brow, 
We  only  gaze — we  fondly  dream,  that  thou 
Art  one  of  those  bright  ministers,  who  bear, 
Along  the  cloudless  bosom  of  the  air, 
Sweet  solemn  words,  to  which  our  spirits  bow, 
With  such  a  holy  smile  thou  lookest  now, 
And  art  so  soft  and  delicately  fair. 

A  veil  of  tender  light  is  mantling  o'er  thee  ; 
Around  thy  opening  lips  young  loves  are  playing  ; 
And  crowds  of  youths,  in  passionate  thought  delaying, 
Pause,  as  thou  movest  by  them,  to  adore  thee  ; 
By  many  a  sudden  blush  and  tear  betraying, 
How  the  heart  trembles,  when  it  bends  before  thee. 


0  !  I  COULD  wish  I  sat  upon  yon  cloud, 
Moving  with  such  a  silent  flight  away, 
And  pure,  as  if  it  were  an  angel's  shroud, 
And  bright,  as  if  it  were  the  veil  of  day. 
Silenuy  on  the  wind  it  passes  by, 
And  o'er  the  mountain  glides  and  comes  no  more  ; 
So,  when  a  few  short  days  are  gone,  shall  I 
Glide  to  a  dim  and  undiscovered  shore. 
12 


134 

0  !  thou  art  pure  and  beautiful,  sweet  form, 
Who  softly  movest  by  me  in  the  light 
Of  thy  young  beauty,  as  upon  the  storm 
Falls,  with  a  fainter  tint,  the  bow  of  night : 
Thy  way  is  to  a  better  world,  and  there 
Thou  lookest  as  a  cloud  that  smiles  at  even  ; 
0  !  be  to  me  that  cloud,  and  kindly  bear 
My  spirit  with  thee  to  thy  own  pure  heaven. 


in. 

THY  form  may  fade,  but  thou  wilt  not  all  die, 
For  love  with  thee  is  deathless — thou  wilt  be 
Dear,  as  thou  ever  hast  been,  unto  me, 
For  thou  wilt  ever  have  the  speaking  eye  ; 
And  that  alone  is  beauty,  and  it  tells 
How  many  fond  affections  burn  within ; 
And  it  too  hath  a  magic  power  to  win 
By  the  enchantment  of  its  living  spells. 

Only  with  that  fond  heart,  and  that  dark  eye, 
Thy  love  will  ever  guide  me,  and  control 
My  spirit  to  thy  gentle  sympathy ; 
And  as  the  needle  trembles  to  the  pole, 
So  shall  my  heart  for  ever  to  thee  fly, 
The  center  and  attraction  of  my  soul. 


135 


IV. 

IF,  when  I  look  on  thee,  and  hear  thy  voice 

In  a  low-whispered  melody  alone, 

When  it  is  breathing  in  its  softest  tone, 

All  the  deep  feelings  of  my  heart  rejoice— 

0  !  what  were  it  to  sit  beside  thee  long, 

And  gaze  on  thy  bright  looks,  and  thy  dark  eyes, 

And  hear  thy  tender  words  and  thy  sweet  song, 

As  sweet  as  if  it  floated  from  the  skies — 

0  !  what  were  it  to  know,  that  thou  art  mine, 

Indissolubly  mine ! — that  thou  wilt  be 

For  ever  as  an  angel  unto  me, 

Whether  the  day  be  dark,  or  fortune  shine, 

Giving  me,  in  the  bliss  of  loving  thee, 

A  portion  of  the  bliss  they  call  divine. 


v. 


CALM  look  of  gentleness — I  see  thee  now, 
Even  in  the  dead  of  night  I  see  thee — fair 
Thou  movest  like  a  spirit  through  the  air, 
And  there  is  light  unearthly  on  thy  brow— 
Yes,  by  that  smile,  it  can  be  only  thou ; 
For  as  the  fresh  dew  trembling  on  the  rose, 
When  first  the  silken  leaves  their  red  unclose, 
Or  as  the  jewel  on  the  frosted  bough, 
So  bright  and  pure  thy  tender  look  of  love  ; 
And  as  thou  hoverest  over  me,  my  heart 


136 

Beats  gentler,  and  I  feel  my  spirit  play 
Light  as  a  linnet  on  his  airy  way  ; 
And  as  thy  blue  eyes  look  on  me,  they  dart 
The  soft  and  winning  glances  of  the  dove. 


VI. 

GREEN  herbs  and  flowers  new  opening,  ye  have  known 
The  soft  hand,  that  once  gathered  you,  and  made 
Of  your  bright  leaves  and  tender  stalks  a  braid, 
To  crown  those  angel  looks,  which  long  have  flown. 
Ere  the  warm  wind  from  off  the  sea  had  blowrn, 
And  waked  the  sleeping  buds  among  the  bowers, 
She  loved  to  pluck  the  pale  and  soft-eyed  flowers 
Of  tint  so  purely  fading  like  her  own. 
These  were  her  chosen  woodlands,  where  she  paid 
The  tribute  of  her  spirit  to  the  power, 
Whose  voice  is  heard  in  every  wind  that  blows, 
Whose  tears  descend  in  every  vernal  shower, 
And  as  they  trickle  through  the  mantling  shade, 
A  stream  of  life  and  love  and  beauty  flows. 


VII. 

0  LOVE  !  thou  art  a  pure  and  holy  thing, 
And  none  should  ever  dare  to  breathe  thy  name, 
Whose  hearts  are  lit  not  with  as  bright  a  flame, 
As  sunward  burns  around  the  eagle's  wing : 
O  !  let  me  not  unworthy  offerings  bring 


137 


To  one,  whose  all-commanding  power  can  tame 
Each  vagrant  wish,  and  stamp  the  brand  of  shame. 
Where  the  least  stains  of  earthly  passion  cling : 
Then  let  me  gather  from  my  inmost  heart 
Pure  feelings  that  from  infancy  have  slept, 
Silent  as  waters  in  a  hidden  well ; 
And  to  the  gentle  offering  then  impart 
The  fire  and  tears  that  Sappho  breathed  and  wept, 
When  her  faint  cittern  gave  its  dying  swell. 


WHEN  the  woodlands  are  covered  with  leaves  and  with 

In  the  loveliest  time  of  the  year ;  [flowers, 

When  the  sky  is  now  clear,  and  now  chequered  with  show- 

And  life  rambles  on  through  the  warm  sunny  hours,  [ers, 

Undimmed  with  a  shade  or  a  tear  ; 

O  !  sweet  are  the  feelings,  that  kindle  and  bum 

As  we  gaze  on  the  flowers  and  the  sky ; 

But  to  higher  and  purer  devotion  they  turn, 

As  water  takes  tint  from  the  hue  of  its  urn, 

When  they  burn  in  the  light  of  thine  eye. 

And  when,  in  the  calm  of  a  moonshiny  night, 
A  serenade  steals  o'er  the  bay, 
As  it  curls  in  the  smile  of  her  mellowest  light, 
Or  lies  in  its  beauty,  as  silent  and  bright, 
As  it  slept  in  the  sunshine  of  day — 
0  !  sweet  is  the  clear  and  the  silvery  tone, 

12* 


138 

As  it  softly  comes  over  my  ear  ; 
But  sweet  as  it  breathes,  when  I  hear  it  alone, 
It  breathes  like  a  flute  by  a  wind-spirit  blown, 
When  I  know  thou  art  listening  near. 

O  !  the  music  and  beauty  oflife  lose  their  worth, 

When  one  heart  only  joys  in  their  smile  ; 

But  the  union  of  hearts  gives  that  pleasure  its  birth, 

Which  beams  on  the  darkest  and  coldest  of  earth, 

Like  the  sun  on  his  own  chosen  isle  ; 

It  gives  to  the  fire-side  of  winter  the  light 

The  glow  and  the  glitter  of  spring — 

O  !  sweet  are  the  hours,  when  two  fond  hearts  unite, 

And  softly  they  glide,  in  their  innocent  flight, 

Away  on  a  motionless  wing. 


SPRING. 

AGAIN  the  infant  flowers  of  Spring 

Call  thee  to  sport  on  thy  rainbow  wing — 

Spirit  of  beauty  !  the  air  is  bright 

With  the  boundless  flow  of  thy  mellow  light ; 

The  woods  are  ready  to  bud  and  bloom, 

And  are  weaving  for  Summer  their  quiet  gloom  ; 

The  tufted  brook  reflects,  as  it  flows, 

The  tips  of  the  half  unopened  rose, 


139 

And  the  early  bird,  as  he  carols  free, 
Sings  to  his  little  love  and  thee. 

See  how  the  clouds,  as  they  fleetly  pass, 

Throw  their  shadowy  veil  on  the  darkening  grass  ; 

And  the  pattering  showers  and  stealing  dews, 

With  their  starry  gems  and  skyey  hues, 

From  the  oozy  meadow,  that  drinks  the  tide, 

To  the  sheltered  vale  on  the  mountain  side, 

Wake  to  a  new  and  fresher  birth 

The  tenderest  tribes  of  teeming  earth, 

And  scatter  with  light  and  dallying  play 

Their  earliest  flowers  on  the  Zephyr's  way. 

He  comes  from  the  mountain's  piny  steep, 

For  the  long  boughs  bend  with  a  silent  sweep  ; 

And  his  rapid  steps  have  hurried  o'er 

The  grassy  hills  to  the  pebbly  shore  ; 

And  now,  on  the  breast  of  the  lonely  lake, 

The  waves  in  silvery  glances  break, 

Like  a  short  and  quickly  rolling  sea, 

When  the  gale  first  feels  its  liberty, 

And  the  flakes  of  foam,  like  coursers,  run, 

Rejoicing  beneath  the  vertical  sun. 

He  has  crossed  the  lake,  and  the  forest  heaves, 
To  the  sway  of  his  wings,  its  billowy  leaves, 
And  the  downy  tufts  of  the  meadow  fly 
In  snowy  clouds,  as  he  passes  by, 


140 

And  softly  beneath  his  noiseless  tread 
The  odorous  spring-grass  bends  its  head  ; 
And  now  he  reaches  the  woven  bower, 
Where  he  meets  his  own  beloved  flower, 
And  gladly  his  wearied  limbs  repose 
In  the  shade  of  the  newly-opening  rose. 


THE  REIGN  OF  MAY. 

I  FEEL  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  ; 

The  winds  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 

Tell  of  serener  hours — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south  wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there  ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 

A  canopy  of  leaves  ; 


141 

And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notesi 

fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods, 
rith  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind  play, 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 


TRUE  GREATNESS. 

THERE  is  a  fire,  that  has  its  birth 
Above  the  proudest  hills  of  earth  ; 
And  higher  than  the  eternal  snows, 
The  fountain  whence  it  rose. 


It  came  to  man  in  ancient  days, 
And  fell  upon  his  ardent  gaze, 
A  god  descending  in  his  car, 
The  spirit  of  a  star. 

And  as  the  glorious  vision  broke 
Full  on  his  eye,  at  once  he  woke, 
Arid  with  the  rush  of  battling  steeds 
He  sprang  to  generous  deeds. 


142 

Then  first  he  stood  erect  and  free, 
And  in  the  might  of  destiny 
A  stern,  unconquerable  fate 

Compelled  him  to  be  great. 

He  strove  not  for  the  wreath  of  fame  ; 

From  heaven,  the  power  that  moved  him,  came, 

And  welcome,  as  the  mountain  air, 

The  voice  that  bade  him  dare. 

Onward  he  bore,  and  battled  still 
With  a  most  firm,  enduring  will ; 
His  only  hope,  to  win  and  rise, 
His  only  aim — the  skies. 

He  saw  their  glories  blaze  afar ; 

A  soul  looked  down  from  every  star  ; 

And  from  its  eye  of  lightning  flew 

A  glance,  that  thrilled  him  through. 

Full  in  the  front  of  war  he  stood  ; 
His  home,  his  country,  claimed  his  blood  : 
Without  one  sigh  that  blood  was  given ; 
He  only  thought — of  heaven* 


143 


THERE  is  nothing  can  equal  the  tender  hours, 

When  life  is  first  in  bloom  ; 
When  the  heart,  like  a  bee  in  a  wild  of  flowers, 

Finds  every  where  perfume  ; 
When  the  present  is  all,  and  it  questions  not, 

If  those  flowers  shall  pass  away, 
But,  pleased  with  its  own  delightful  lot, 

Dreams  never  of  decay. 

0  !  it  dreams  not  the  hue,  that  freshly  glows 

On  the  cheek,  shall  ever  flee, 
And  fade  away  like  the  summer  rose, 

Or  the  crimson  on  the  sea, 
When  far  in  the  west  the  setting  sun 

Goes  down  in  the  kindled  main, 
And  the  colours  vanish  one  by  one, 

But  never  revive  again. 

0  !  life  in  its  spring-time  dances  on 

In  smiles  and  innocent  tears  ; 
It  casts  not  a  look  to  the  moments  gone, 

But  hails  the  coming  years  ; 
They  shine  before  its  fancy's  eye, 

Like  eastern  visions,  bright, 
Gay  as  the  hues  in  the  western  sky, 

At  the  coming  on  of  night. 


144 

Thus  happy  in  all  their  bosoms  feel, 

And  in  all  their  fancy  dreams, 
Their  quiet  moments  onward  steal 

Like  the  silent  flow  of  streams, 
Gliding  through  tufted  flowers  away 

To  the  far  and  unknown  sea  ; 
So  on  with  a  flight  that  cannot  stay 

Their  days  of  innocence  flee. 

But  soon — too  soon  their  hearts  shall  know, 

The  future  was  falsely  bright, 
And  its  gay  and  far-deluding  glow 

Shall  change  to  the  gloom  of  night ; 
O  !  then  with  a  fond  and  lingering  eye 

They  shall  turn  to  the  early  hours, 
When  life,  as  their  moments  hurried  by, 

Was  a  wild  of  sweets  and  flowers. 


DEAR  moments  of  childhood  !  how  sweetly  ye  smile, 
As  I  gaze  on  the  vista  of  years  that  are  gone ; 
Ye  smile  in  your  innocent  loveliness,  while 
In  the  downhill  of  life  we  are  hastening  on. 

O  !  could  I  return  to  your  beautiful  prime, 
When  ye  shone  like  the  morn  of  a  clear  summer  day, 
And  my  spirit  ne'er  thought  how  the  footsteps  of  time, 
Like  the  flight  of  an  eagle,  were  hastening  away ; 


145 


O  could  I  return  to  those  innocent  hours, 
When  my  heart  knew  no  sorrow,  that  fled  not  as  SOOB 
As  the  soft  drops  of  April  that  fall  upon  flowers, 
And  vanish  at  once  in  the  bright  air  of  noon  ; 

0  then  I  might  taste  of  the  silent  delight, 
That  beams  in  the  eye  of  an  infant,  and  flows 
As  peacefully  on  as  the  dove  in  her  flight, 
Or  the  dew  stealing  out  of  the  cup  of  a  rose ; 

0  then  I  might  lay  all  my  sorrows  at  rest, 
And  be  calm  as  the  first  whispered  zephyr  of  spring, 
When  it  comes  on  its  pinions  of  down  from  the  west, 
And  shakes  the  soft  fragrance  of  May  from  its  wing ; 

0  then  I  might  know  what  it  is  to  be  free 
From  a  burden  that  presses  a  heart  to  the  grave, 
Might  charm  back  the  feeling  of  lightness  and  glee, 
The  first  look  of  love  and  of  gentleness  gave. 

But  no — I  have  passed  from  the  fresh  blooming  shore, 
Where  life  gathers  round  it  its  verdure  and  flowers  ; 

1  can  fondly  look  backward — but  ah !  never  more 
Can  I  taste  of  your  sweetness — ye  innocent  hours. 

Then  whither — ah  whither,  escape  from  the  night 
Which  darkens  more  deeply,  the  farther  I  go  ! 
Look  out  from  the  gloom,  some  benevolent  light ! 
Like  a  star  on  the  traveller,  who  wanders  below. 
13 


146 

A  light  now  is  breaking — it  comes  from  above, 
Still  clearer  and  purer  than  life's  early  dawn ; 
It  descends  with  the  motionless  flight  of  a  dove, 
And  guides  me  in  safety  and  cheerfulness  on. 

Then  let  me  not  turn  to  the  innocent  hours 
Of  childhood,  when  brighter  hours  wait  me  before ; 
There  are  thorns  in  life's  earliest  and  tenderest  flowers, 
But  yonder  are  flowers  that  shall  sting  me  no  more. 


COME  from  thy  home  in  the  far  blue  sky, 

Spirit  of  beauty,  and  love,  and  song ! 
Hang  on  thy  airy  pinions  nigh, 

When  the  dreams  of  my  wayward  fancy  throng ; 
Give  them  a  brighter  and  gayer  hue, 

Shape  them  to  forms  of  finer  mould, 
Fairer  than  ever  painter  drew, 

Brighter  than  all  the  gods  of  old. 

Lead  me  to  that  delicious  clime, 

Where  the  Anana  swells  and  glows ; 
Lay  me  beneath  the  flowering  lime, 

Where  the  dew  in  drops  of  nectar  flows ; 
There  let  the  visions  of  beauty  rise, 

And  float  in  fairy  trains  away, 
Bright  as  their  own  unclouded  skies, 

And  rich  as  the  parting  light  of  day. 


147 

Bring  to  my  heart  the  melting  tone, 

Once  so  sweet  to  my  lingering  ear ; 
Though  the  days  of  youth  have  flown, 

Still  that  tone  to  my  heart  is  dear : 
Now  it  seems  to  murmur  by, 

Soft  as  the  wind  in  a  bed  of  flowers ; 
Now  the  falling  whispers  die  ; 

Gone  is  the  dream  of  my  fairest  hours. 

Dimly  the  visions  of  beauty  fade, 

Like  the  cloud  that  melts  in  the  evening  air, 
When  its  colours  vanish  shade  by  shade 

Till  the  blue  of  the  sky  alone  is  there  ; 
Ere  they  have  wholly  faded,  throw, 

Spirit  of  beauty !  one  glance  to  me, 
Bright  as  the  last  and  fullest  glow 

Of  the  setting  sun  on  the  golden  sea. 


THOU  hast  come  from  thy  home  in  the  far  blue  sky, 

To  dwell  in  the  bosom  of  flowery  dells ; 
Thou  hast  laid  thy  mantle  of  glory  by, 

With  its  heavenly  hues  and  its  magic  spells  ; 
Thou  hast  wrapped  thee  in  weeds  of  sober  grey, 

And  simply  braided  thy  flowing  hair, 
And  thy  locks  in  fond  and  amorous  play, 

Sport  with  the  soft  and  balmy  air. 


148 

From  thy  wintry  hall  in  the  evening  cloud, 

Where  gathered  thy  pomp  of  airy  hues, 
And  thine  eye,  from  the  folds  of  thy  golden  shroud, 

Looked  down  on  the  glistening  of  frozen  dews, 
Where  each  drop,  like  a  bright  particular  star, 

Caught  the  iris  colours  around  thy  throne, 
And  the  moon,  as  she  mounted  the  hills  afar, 

On  a  world  of  seeded  silver  shone : 

From  thy  glittering  hall  in  the  lonely  sky 

Thou  hast  come  to  dwell  in  the  tangled  bower. 
Where  a  stealing  brook  is  murmuring  by, 

And  bathing  the  roots  of  herb  and  flower — 
Here  thy  beneficent  hand  shall  throw 

Its  thousand  hues  o'er  the  budding  plain, 
Till  we  dream,  the  clouds,  in  their  sunset  glow, 

Have  melted  in  showers  of  golden  rain. 


SOUL  of  the  lyre  and  song ! 
Who  comest  from  the  blue  and  boundless  air, 

And  bearest  me  along 
To  read  the  starry  glories  gathered  there ; 

Who  callest  from  the  deep 
The  spirits  of  the  long  departed  dead, 

To  move  in  gallant  sweep, 
And  proud  array  above  their  honoured  bed ; 


149 


Whether  from  air  or  sea 
Thy  voice  is  uttered,  or  from  mountain  heights, 

Where  the  hawk  hovers  free, 
And  morn  and  evening  hang  their  thousand  lights ; 

Whether  from  cove  or  stream 
Bosomed  in  shady  forests,  where  of  old 

To  the  rapt  prophet's  dream 
A  tale  of  visionaiy  pomp  was  told  ; 

JTis  the  one  stirring  breath, 
That  moves  through  every  creature^  urging  on 

The  warrior  to  death, 
The  bard  to  give  to  fame  the  victory  won. 


I  LOOKED  on  the  broad  setting  sun, 

When  his  flight  through  the  wide  heaven  was  done, 

And  the  waves  glowing  bright  with  his  fire 

Rose  around  like  a  funeral  pyre. 

I  watched  the  red  twilight  decay, 
When  its  tints  melted  slowly  away, 
Till  the  light  of  the  soft  evening  star 
Looked  out  on  the  blue  sea  afar. 

I  saw  it  hang  low  in  the  west, 
Till  it  sank  on  the  ocean's  calm  breast, 
And  it  seemed  as  its  brightness  grew  dim, 
In  the  mirror  of  waters  to  swim. 
13* 


150 

I  turned  and  beheld  a  new  day 

From  the  low-lying  clouds  burst  away, 

And  its  light  on  their  wreathed  volumes  throw, 

Till  they  rolled  like  a  deluge  of  snow. 

I  followed  the  round  ruddy  moon, 
Till  she  stood  at  the  height  of  her  noon, 
And  watched  her  deep  blushes  expire 
As  she  rose  on  the  blue  heaven  higher. 

I  saw  the  far  ocean  grow  bright 
With  the  flow  of  her  mellowest  light, 
And  the  waves,  in  their  long-rolling  swell, 
Caught  her  smile  as  they  mounted  and  fell. 

I  marked,  as  her  pale-tinted  ray 
In  the  first  flush  of  dawn  died  away, 
Broad  pillars  of  fire  dart  again 
From  the  breast  of  the  kindling  main. 

Then  the  sea  flashed,  like  gold,  in  its  flow, 
And  the  clouds  caught  the  beautiful  glow, 
Till  the  sun  from  the  wide  ocean  came, 
Like  a  god  in  his  chariot  of  flame. 


THOU  glorious  spirit  of  life  and  love ! 

There  is  not  a  leaf  or  flower, 
That  spreads  to  the  sun,  when  meadow  and  grove 

Awake  with  the  April  shower ; 


151 

There  is  not  a  creature,  that  walks  the  earth. 

And  is  glad  in  his  liberty, 
But  feels  and  knows,  from  his  earliest  birth, 

How  his  being  is  full  of  thee. 

The  waters,  that  fall  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

Or  in  verdurous  valleys  flow  ; 
The  waves,  that  around  the  gallant  prow 

In  the  noon-light  flash  and  glow  ; 
The  sea,  as  it  heaves  from  the  line  to  the  pole, 

In  calm  or  in  tempest — free, 
Feels  deep  in  its  heart  the  enlivening  soul — 

The  ocean  is  full  of  thee. 

The  clouds  that  hang  in  the  evening  sky, 

And  burn  with  the  setting  sun  ; 
The  glorious  beings,  who  meet  on  high, 

When  the  light  of  day  is  done  ; 
The  brightness  that  fills  the  boundless  blue, 

When  the  shades  of  twilight  flee — 
0  !  the  quickening  air  with  its  rain  and  dew — 

The  air  is  full  of  thee. 


"  WHERE  hast  thou  been  on  thy  rainbow  wing, 
Soul  of  the  light  and  festive  song  1" 

"  I  have  been,  where  around  the  magic  spring 
The  spirits  of  love  and  beauty  throng ; 


152 

There,  to  the  sound  of  languishing  airs, 

They  wheel  their  dance  on  the  moon-lit  well, 
And  every  breath  of  the  night-wind  bears 

Through  wilds  of  roses  the  warbled  spell ; 
Then  it  silently  steals  away, 

Like  a  floating  bird,  when  the  sea  is  calm, 
And  the  lingering  breeze,  with  a  fond  delay, 

Hovers  around  those  bowers  of  balm  : 
Thence  on  my  rainbow  wing  I  flew, 

To  bear  this  bud  of  a  rose  to  thee  ; 
Never  a  fairer  blossom  blew. 

Than  this  when  it  opens  its  leaves  shall  be." 

"  Whither  is  now  thy  airy  flight  ?' 

"  Over  the  blue  and  boundless  ocean, 
Where  it  lifts,  to  embrace  the  setting  light, 

Its  golden  waves  with  a  softest  motion : 
Far  to  the  pictured  west  I  fly, 

Where  the  wings  of  the  spirits  of  fire  are  glancing, 
And  their  radiant  forms  on  the  kindled  sky, 

Like  sparks  in  a  stormy  sea,  are  dancing  : 
Thither  I  go,  and  I  soon  return, 

When  my  torch  is  lit  in  the  fount  of  glory, 
That  thy  pen  with  a  hallowed  glow  may  burn, 

When  thou  givest  the  names  of  the  good  to  story. 

Then  I  will  bring,  from  the  coral  cave, 
Flowers  of  a  brighter  and  purer  hue, 
Than  ever  Hesperian  gardens  gave, 


158 

Or  drank  from  the  sky  its  tender  blue  ; 
Down  in  the  fathomless  deep  they  lie, 

Tufted  with  leaves  of  glassy  green, 
And  their  pearly  tints,  like  the  opening  sky 

Through  the  rift  of  a  cloud,  look  out  between  ; 
Some  shall  mimic  the  setting  sun, 

Or  the  reddening  glow  of  a  distant  fire, 
And  in  some  every  tint  shall  blend  and  run, 

Like  the  mingling  sounds  on  a  trembling  wire  ; 
These  I  will  pluck  from  the  coral  cave, 

In  the  silent  depths  of  the  tropic  sea  ; 
Then  the  treasures  of  earth,  and  sky,  and  wave, 

Shall  be  borne  on  my  rainbow  wing  to  thee. 

Then  I  will  bend  my  airy  flight, 

From  my  wanderings,  back  to  the  magic  well, 
Where  the  gentle  spirits,  who  love  the  light 

Of  the  moon,  in  its  fullest  beauty,  dwell ; 
There,  when  the  fountain  bubbles  over, 

Shedding  a  soft  and  vapoury  dew, 
Their  glistening  wings,  as  around  they  hover 

In  the  silvery  cloud,  shall  quiver  through  ; 
Whether  I  fly  to  the  setting  sun, 

Or  down  in  the  depths  of  ocean  roam, 
Still  I  seek,  when  my  flight  is  done, 

In  the  wild  of  flowers,  my  cherished  home." 


154 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  LIFE, 

FROM  the  flowery  isles  of  the  southern  sea, 

Where  the  fulness  of  life  for  ever  flows, 
Where  the  waters  are  ever  gliding  free, 

And  the  ripened  fruit  by  its  blossom  glows  ; 
From  the  region  of  light  and  wooing  gales, 

W^here  the  plumed  wanderer  loves  to  roam, 
And  glad,  as  the  fair  wind  fills  his  sails, 

Bounds  over  the  wave  to,  his  unseen  home  : 

From  the  flowery  isles  of  the  southern  sea, 

Where  life  seems  one  long  and  glad  repose, 
And  the  savage  beneath  his  sheltering  tree 

No  fairer  ar^  liappier  being  knows  ; 
Where  he  wakes  to  a  clear  and  cloudless  day 

With  the  notes  of  the  earliest  matin  song, 
And  silently  dreams  the  hours  away, 

Or  hurries  to  join  the  sportive  throng  : 

From  those  flowery  and  happy  Elysian  isles, 

Where  the  ocean  kisses  the  coral  shore, 
And,  spread  like  a  silvery  mirror,  smiles, 

Nor  ever  awakes  to  the  whirlwind's  roar  ; 
Where  the  halcyon  ever  might  fold  its  wing, 

And  float  on  the  calm  and  silent  sea, 
And  wide  the  joyous  mariner  fling 

His  sails  to  the  wind's  full  mastery  : 


155 

I  come  from  those  blest  Elysian  isles 

With  the  dews  of  life  in  my  brimming  urn ; 
Young  spring  at  my  bidding  wakes  and  smiles, 

And  the  infant  blushes  of  beauty  burn ; 
A  thousand  busy  and  joyous  wings 

O'er  meadow  and  forest  my  treasures  bear, 
And  health,  in  her  innocent  gladness,  flings 

New-braided  wreaths  from  her  flowing  hair ; 
All  waken  and  brighten  where'er  I  go, 

Like  the  hearts  that  welcome  a  festive  day, 
And  happy  creatures  around  me  flow, 

Like  the  crowds  that  greet  a  conqueror's  way. 


SPIRIT  of  high  and  mighty  souls  ! 

Thine  is  the  darkly  hovering  cloud, 
Deep  in  whose  heart  the  thunder  rolls, 

With  a  murmuring  echo  long  and  loud ; 
Thine  the  gulph,  where  the  cataract  pours 

With  a  sudden  rush  its  emerald  tide  ; 
Thine  the  height,  where  the  eagle  soars, 

And  the  winds  in  their  stormy  chariots  ridq 

Thine  the  unbounded  world  of  waves 

Bursting  aloft  with  fiery  foam  ; 
Thine  the  fearless  bark,  that  braves 

Danger  and  death  on  its  ocean  home ; 


156 

Thine  the  mountains  that  gird  the  pole, 
Wreathed  like  a  starry  crown  of  light — 

These  are  the  haunts  of  the  mighty  soul — 
Thither  it  bends  its  daring  flight. 

But  by  the  side  of  the  hidden  spring 

Shaded  with  newly  budding  flowers, 
Where  the  butterfly  floats  on  its  filmy  wing, 

And  the  rose  breathes  sweetlier  after  showers  ; 
But  in  the  cool  sequestered  shade 

At  the  lonely  foot  of  a  wooded  hill, 
Where  a  low  and  pleasing  din  is  made 

By  the  dash  of  the  brook  at  the  village  mill  : 

But  in  the  coloured  sky  at  even, 

When  the  glorious  tints  are  fading  away, 
And  shapes  like  the  missioned  spirits  of  heaven. 

Round  the  top  of  the  gilded  forest  play ; 
But  by  the  sweep  of  the  silent  river, 

Where  its  waters  in  gentle  stillness  roll, 
Like  the  tides  of  Eternity,  ruffled  never — 

O  !  these  are  the  haunts  of  the  tender  soul. 


HAD  I  the  pinions  of  an  eagle's  wing, 

In  the  pure  mountain  air, 
Poised  like  a  glorious  and  celestial  thing, 
My  soul  afar  should  fling 

Its  glances  there. 


157 

Above  the  mid-way  haunt  of  clouds  and  storms, 

In  the  bright  summer  sun, 
Whose  tempered  influence  kindles,  as  it  warms, 
O'er  beauty's  fairest  forms 

My  eye  should  run. 

There  all  that  dims  and  darkens  fades  away ; 

One  flow  of  mellow  light, 
Fresh  as  the  newly  risen  beam  of  day, 
In  ever  varying  play, 

Makes  all  things  bright. 

The  woods  that  wave  below  in  tufted  green, 
The  meadows  pranked  with  flowers, 

The  pebbly  brooks  that  wind  in  light  between, 

Glad  as  their  blushing  queen 
Descends  in  showers — 

From  the  clear  height  of  that  aerial  throne, 

Heaved  like  a  prop  of  heaven, 
Towering  hi  solitary  pride  alone, 
Where  never  storms  have  blown, 

Nor  clouds  were  driven — 

Seen  from  that  airy  tower,  so  far  below, 

They  swim  in  waving  gold, 
As  when  the  misty  hills  at  evening  glow, 
And  light  in  liquid  flow 

On  earth  is  rolled. 

14 


158 

On  the  far  confines  of  the  bending  sky, 

Where  ocean  melts  in  air, 
Light  curls  of  snowy  vapours  hover  by, 
And  azure  islands  lie 

In  slumber  there. 

Like  halcyons  floating  on  the  silent  sea, 

With  wings  of  skyey  hue 
Shading  their  weary  eyes, — so  tranquilly 
They  take,  bright  heaven,  from  thee 

Thy  purest  blue. 

There  as  I  gaze,  I  feel  a  gentle  power 
Steal  through  my  heart,  and  lay 

Its  cares  at  rest,  as  when  the  dewy  shower 

Freshens  at  night  the  flower, 
That  drooped  by  day. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 


I  SHED  no  tear  upon  thy  early  grave, 
For  thy  pure  soul  has  found  deliverance  now, 

And  from  the  eminence  that  Nature  gave, 
Looks  down  upon  a  world,  that  sought  to  bow, 

With  a  low  burden  of  consuming  cares, 
Thy  spirit  to  the  reach  of  theirs. 


159 

Thou  wert  not  fashioned  for  the  menial  throng, 
Who  plod  with  easy  step  the  common  way, 

But  thy  delight  was  in  the  sons  of  song, 
And,  sooth,  to  play 

On  the  light  strings  of  some  unearthly  lyre 

Was  all  thy  office,  and  thy  sole  desire. 

Thy  spirit  could  not  brook  the  common  lot, 

Not  that  it  wore  the  plume  and  crest  of  pride, 
For  the  meek  tenant  of  a  shepherd's  cot 

Went  as  a  loved  companion  by  thy  side  ; 

But  all  thy  thoughts  were  lent, 

With  a  perpetual  bent, 
To  meditations  of  an  unknown  sphere, 

And  therefore  life  below 

Seemed  all  too  lag  and  slow, 
And  every  look  was  cold,  that  met  thee  here  ; 

So  thou  didst  keep  thy  melancholy  way 

With  earnest  longing  for  a  brighter  day. 

And  it  has  come — and  now  a  loftier  air 

Encompasses  about  thy  liberal  soul — 
The  welcome  winds  that  blow  around  thee  bear 

Sounds  that  from  fitly  chiming  planets  roll, 
And  now  thy  all-attentive  spirit  hears 
The  harmony  of  spheres — 

Thy  path  is  now  through  amaranth  beds,  and  lines 
Of  laurel,  such  as  crown  the  chosen  few, 

WTbose  tuneful  company  in  glory  shines 
Bathed  with  large  offerings  of  Castalian  dewr, 


160 


That  from  a  golden  overshadowing  cloud 

In  full  effusion  flows, 
And  while  their  harps  and  voices  echo  loud, 

Breathes  round  the  living  perfume  of  the  rose. 

And  now  admitted  to  their  willing  train 

Thou  standest  high  upon  the  starry  floor, 
And  thou  shalt  walk  on  that  cerulean  plain 

Inlaid  with  burning  gems  and  sparkling  ore  : 

Thou  shalt  behold  no  more 

The  clouds  that  overshade  our  darker  day, 

For  they  have  rolled  away — 
Like  a  bright  jewel  in  a  coronet, 

Or,  fitter  simile,  a  rolling  star, 

Imperial  Jove  in  his  eternal  car, 

In  the  full  front  of  Heaven's  armada  set, 
That  ride  the  airy  sea, 

Spreading  without  a  limit  or  a  shore, 

And  stead  of  rush  and  roar, 

Moving  to  a  most  gentle  harmony — 

Thus  bright,  and  thus  upheld  in  port  and  place, 
Thou  shalt  maintain  thy  station  evermore, 

And  with  such  lofty  grace, 
As  Theron  erst  the  palmy  garland  wore, 

Bear  on  thy  youthful  brow  the  immortal  bay, 

And  so  thy  fame  shall  never  pass  away. 

Then  why  should  we  with  long  and  vain  lament 
Weep  o'er  thy  early  fate,  as  if  it  were 


161 

Inflicted  on  thee  with  no  good  intent, 
But  dropped  unkindly  from  the  infected  air — 

Rather  be  glad,  for  'tis  the  blessed  care 
Of  some  benevolent  power, 
Whose  wont  it  is,  with  open  hand  to  shower 
His  liberal  gifts,  that  thou  so  soon  hast  given 
Thy  spirit  to  the  full  embrace  of  heaven. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AUTUMN. 

Now  the  growing  year  is  over, 

And  the  shepherd's  tinkling  bell 
Faintly  from  its  winter  cover 
Rings  a  low  farewell : — 
Now  the  birds  of  Autumn  shiver, 
Where  the  withered  beech-leaves  quiver, 
O'er  the  dark  and  lazy  river, 
In  the  rocky  dell. 

Now  the  mist  is  on  the  mountains, 

Reddening  in  the  rising  sun ; 
Now  the  flowers  around  the  fountains 

Perish  one  by  one  : — 
Not  a  spire  of  grass  is  growing, 
But  the  leaves  that  late  were  glowing, 
Now  its  blighted  green  are  strewing 
With  a  mantle  dun. 
14* 


162 

Now  the  torrent  brook  is  stealing 

Faintly  down  the  furrowed  glade — 
Not  as  when  in  winter  pealing, 

Such  a  din  it  made, 
That  the  sound  of  cataracts  falling 
Gave  no  echo  so  appalling, 
As  its  hoarse  and  heavy  brawling 

In  the  pine's  black  shade. 

Darkly  blue  the  mist  is  hovering 

Round  the  clifted  rock's  bare  height* 
All  the  bordering  mountains  covering 

With  a  dim  uncertain  light : — 
Now,  a  fresher  wind  prevailing, 
Wide  its  heavy  burden  sailing, 
Deepens  as  the  day  is  failing, 

Fast  the  gloom  of  night. 

Slow  the  blood-stained  moon  is  riding 

Through  the  still  and  hazy  air, 
Like  a  sheeted  spectre  gliding 

In  a  torch's  glare  : — 
Few  the  hours,  her  light  is  given — 
Mingling  clouds  of  tempest  driven 
O'er  the  mourning  face  of  heaven, 

All  is  blackness  there. 


163 


THE  SOUL  OF  SONG. 

WHERE  lives  the  soul  of  song  ? 
Dwells  it  amid  the  city's  festive  halls  ? 

Where  crowd  the  eager  throng, 
Or  where  the  wanderer's  silent  footstep  falls  ? 

Loves  it  the  gay  saloon, 
Where  wine  and  dances  steal  away  the  night, 

And  bright  as  summer  noon 
Burns  round  the  pictured  walls  a  blaze  of  light  1 

Seeks  it  the  public  square, 
When  victory  hails  the  people's  chosen  son, 

And  loud  applauses  there 
From  lip  to  lip  in  emulous  greetings  run  ? 

Dwells  it  amid  the  host, 
Who  bear  their  crimson  banners  waving  high  ; 

Whose  first  and  only  boast 
Draws  tears  of  anguish  from  the  patriot's  eye  ? 

Follows  it  on  the  path, 
Where  the  proud  conqueror  marches  to  his  home. 

And  wearied  of  his  wrath 
Smiles  as  he  steps  beneath  the  imperial  dome  ? 


164 

No — not  in  festive  halls, 
In  crowded  marts,  nor  in  the  gay  saloon ; 

Not  in  the  forum  falls, 
Nor  on  the  conquering  host  the  gracious  boon  ; 

But  where  blue  mountains  rise 
Silent  and  calm  amid  the  upper  air, 

And  pure  and  cloudless  skies 
Bend  o'er  a  world,  that  lies  below  as  fair ; 

But  where  uncultured  plains 
Spread  far  and  wide  their  beds  of  grass  and  flowers, 

And  heaven's  bright  pencil  stains 
Clear  gems  that  roll  away  in  silent  showers  ; 

But  in  the  depth  of  woods, 
Where  the  slant  sunbeam  gilds  the  hoary  trees, 

And  the  soft  voice  of  floods 
Glides  on  the  pinions  of  the  evening  breeze  ; 

But  in  the  broken  dell, 
Where  the  crisped  ivy  curls  its  tangled  vines, 

And  the  wild  blossom's  bell 
Drops  with  the  dew,  that  in  its  hollow  shines  ; 

But  in  the  gulfy  cave, 
Where  pours  the  cascade  from  the  glacier's  height, 

And  all  its  waters  wave, 
Like  rainbows,  in  their  luxury  of  light ; 


165 

There  dwells  the  Soul  of  song — 
It  flies  not  to  the  city's  festive  halls, 

But  loves  to  steal  along, 
Where  the  lone  wanderer's  silent  footstep  falls. 


MORNING  TWILIGHT. 

THE  mountains  are  blue  in  the  morning  air, 

And  the  woods  are  sparkling  with  dewy  light ; 
The  winds,  as  they  wind  through  the  hollows,  bear 

The  breath  of  the  blossoms  that  wake  by  night. 
Wide  o'er  the  bending  meadows  roll 

The  mists,  like  a  lightly  moving  sea ; 
The  sun  is  not  risen — and  over  the  whole 

There  hovers  a  silent  mystery. 

The  pure  blue  sky  is  in  calm  repose  ; 

The  pillowy  clouds  are  sleeping  there  ; 
So  stilly  the  brook  in  its  covert  flows, 

You  would  think  its  murmur  a  breath  of  air. 
The  water  that  floats  in  the  glassy  pool, 

Half  hid  by  the  willows  that  line  its  brink, 
In  its  deep  recess  has  a  look  so  cool, 

One  would  worship  its  nymph,  as  he  bent  to  drink. 

Pure  and  beautiful  thoughts,  at  this  early  hour, 
Go  off  to  the  home  of  the  bright  and  blessed  ; 

They  steal  on  the  heart  with  an  unseen  power, 
And  its  passionate  throbbings  are  laid  at  rest : 


166 

0!  who  would  not  catch,  from  the  quiet  sky 
And  the  mountains  that  soar  in  the  hazy  air, 

When  his  harbinger  tells  that  the  sun  is  nigh, 
The  visions  of  bliss  that  are  floating  there. 


"  The  memory  of  joys  that  are  past," — Ossian. 

WHERE  are  now  the  flowers  that  once  detained  me 

Like  a  loiterer  on  my  early  way  1 
Where  the  fragrant  wreaths  that  softly  chained  me, 

When  young  life  was  like  an  infant's  play  1 

Were  they  but  the  fancied  dreams,  that  hover 
Round  the  couch  where  tender  hearts  repose  ? 

Only  pictured  veils  that  brightly  cover 
With  their  skyey  tints  a  world  of  woes  ? 

They  are  gone — but  memory  loves  to  cherish 
All  their  sweetness  in  her  deepest  core. 

Ah !  the  recollection  cannot  perish, 

Though  the  eye  may  never  meet  them  more. 

There  are  hopes,  that  like  enchantment  brighten 

Gaily  in  the  van  of  coming  years  ; 
They  are  never  met — and  yet  they  lighten, 

When  we  walk  in  sorrow  and  in  tears. 


167 

When  the  present  only  tells  of  anguish, 
Then  we  know  their  worth,  and  only  then : 

O  !  the  wasted  heart  will  cease  to  languish, 
When  it  thinks  of  joys  that  might  have  been. 

Age,  and  suffering,  and  want,  may  sever 
Every  link,  that  bound  to  life,  in  twain : 

Hope — even  hope  may  vanish,  but  for  ever 
Memory  with  her  visions  will  remain. 


INSPIRATION. 

GLORIOUS  creatures  !  Shapes  of  light ! 

Where  are  now  those  looks  of  power ; 
Where  thceyes  that  glistened  bright, 

In  my  visionary  hour  ? 

Ye  were  fair,  and  ye  were  high  ; 

Far,  too  far  away  from  earth  ; 
Shadowy  pinions  hovered  nigh, 

When  my  fancy  gave  you  birth. 

I  was  in  a  trance  of  heaven ; 

Spirits  then  would  come  and  go : 
Where  the  eternal  walls  were  riven, 

Rushed  a  dazzling  overflow. 


168 

I  was  then,  on  sounding  wings, 

Borne  along  the  living  air ; 
All  of  bright  and  beauteous  things, 

All  of  great  and  good  were  there. 

Not  a  sound,  but  seemed  to  tell 

Harmony  and  holy  love  ; 
Every  echo  gently  fell, 

Like  an  answer  from  above. 

Then  the  soul  assumed  its  reign ; 

Then  it  stood  erect  and  bold ; 
All  it  sought  so  long  in  vain, 

Then  in  torrents  round  it  rolled. 

With  a  full  and  sudden  rush, 

Thought,  and  light,  and  knowledge  came, 
Like  an  instantaneous  gush 

From  the  purest  fount  of  flame. 

Thick  as  atoms  in  the  sun, 

Dancing  on  the  dusty  way, 
Thousand  sparkles  seemed  to  run, 

Meeting,  mingling  into  day. 

>T  was  the  Spirit's  jubilee  ; 

Passion  sprang,  and  rent  his  chain ; 
Mounting  into  ecstacy, 

Bright,  and  free  from  every  stain. 


169 

Visions,  many  as  the  stars, 
Glowing  like  a  summer  even, 

Proud  as  victors  on  their  cars, 
Heralded  my  way  to  heaven. 


REMORSE. 

I  AM  banished  from  home  and  from  heaven, 
Like  the  rush  of  a  thunderbolt  driven  ; 
Ever  blacker  the  night  sinks  before  me, 
And  louder  the  storm  rages  o'er  me ; 
A  whirlwind  behind  me  is  rushing, 
And  torrents  around  me  are  gushing ; 
My  flight  must  be  onward  for  ever, 
And  a  rest  from  my  wandering  be  never. 

My  proud  heart  is  broken  and  saddened ; 
My  brain,  like  a  scorpion,  maddened, 
When  a  circle  of  flame  has  fast  bound  him, 
And  death  is  within  and  around  him ; 
My  hopes  are  all  scattered  and  flying, 
And  the  last  pulse  that  stirred  me  is  dying ; 
Of  memory  no  time  can  bereave  me, 
It  may  torture,  but  never  will  leave  me. 

O  !  where  the  ambition  that  hovered, 
Till  its  pinions  with  glory  were  covered ; 
15 


170 

Where  the  hopes,  ever  fonder  and  lighter, 
Like  the  morning  sun,  brighter  and  brighter ; 
Where  the  fancy  that  coloured  and  painted, 
Till  the  picture  was  hallowed  and  sainted  ; 
And  the  love,  a  devoted  adorer, 
That  bent  in  his  ecstasy  o'er  her. 

0  !  these  were  my  forfeited  heaven  ; 
But  few  were  the  days  they  were  given  : 
And  now,  like  a  wanderer  benighted, 
Every  blossom  and  bud  torn  and  blighted, 
In  the  regions  of  darkness  and  sorrow, 
Forbidden  the  hope  of  a  morrow, 
From  all  that  was  dear  I  must  sever, 
And  rush  to  my  ruin  for  ever. 

Now  rage,  like  a  hurricane,  wings  me, 

And  the  goading  of  memory  stings  me  ; 

If  I  look,  for  a  moment,  behind  me, 

The  arrows  of  thought  sear  and  blind  me  ; 

The  far  echoed  music  of  gladness 

Now  stirs  me  to  fury  and  madness, 

And  the  fa  ne,  that  once  wooed  me,  now  spurns  me. 

And  its  brightness  now  scorches  and  burns  me. 

Then  welcome  the  rush  and  the  roaring, 
And  the  storm  that  is  bursting  and  pouring, 
And  the  darkness  that  thickens  around  me, 
As  if  earth  in  its  centre  had  bound  me ; 


171 

Better  onward  through  chaos  be  driven, 
Than  be  scared  by  the  frowning  of  heaven, 
Though  a  rest  from  my  wandering  be  never, 
And  my  flight  be  for  ever  and  ever. 


A  FANCY-PIECE. 

I  FOUND  thee  where  the  woods  were  wild, 

And  weeds  and  thorns  had  round  thee  grown ; 

No  hunter's  foot,  no  wandering  child, 
Had  met  thee,  thou  wert  all  so  lone. 

Above  the  cypress  and  the  yew 

Had  wreathed  around  their  funeral  shade, 
And  the  still  wind  that  faintly  blew, 

A  sound,  like  that  of  sorrow,  made. 

And  ever  as  it  o'er  thee  swept. 

Low-breathing  melodies  were  heard, 

As  if  a  mourner  sobbed  and  wept, 
0*  nightly  sang  the  widowed  bird. 

And  now,  as  fitfully  the  blast 

Shook  the  tossed  branches  overhead, 

A  voice  like  that  of  terror  passed, 
And  like  a  midnight  vision  fled. 

And  then  again  a  mingled  tone 
Of  all  sweet  echoes  met  my  ear, 


172 

Sweet  as  when  storms  are  overblown, 
The  warm  south  wind  comes  stealing  near ; 

Sweet  as  the  closing  breath  of  even, 
When  wet  with  dews  her  pinions  fall, 

And,  like  a  messenger  of  heaven, 

Night  comes  and  whispers  peace  to  all. 

I  took  thee  from  thy  sylvan  haunt, 

And  brought  thee  to  the  cultured  plain> 

And  saw  thee  flourish,  like  a  plant 
Nursed  by  the  dews  and  kindly  rain. 

And  there  was  music  round  thee  still, 
And  it  was  sweet — 0  !  sweeter  far ; 

Like  voices  echoed  from  the  hill, 

When  Love  has  lit  his  trembling  star : 

Or  like  the  fluttering  airs  in  May, 
Stealing  among  the  musky  flowers, 

And  bearing  mingled  sweets  away 

From  pansied  beds  and  orange  bowers  : 

A  sound,  that  with  the  fretting  stream, 
And  feeding  flocks,  and  murmuring  bees. 

Blent,  like  the  closing  of  a  dream, 
In  undistinguished  harmonies* 

And  ever,  as  the  mounting  sun 

Shone  broader  in  the  summer  heave% 


173 

Voices  and  symphonies  would  run 
In  hurried  chords  around  thee  driven. 

And  then  the  melody  was  high, 

Like  organs  pealing  through  a  choir, 

Or  thunders  mingling  in  the  sky, 
Or  like  the  distant  roar  of  fire  : 

A  solemn  tempered  tone,  that  gave 
A  shuddering,  not  unmixed  with  joy  ; 
As  when  the  proud,  unshrinking  boy 

Fears,  and  yet  breasts  the  bursting  wave. 

And  ever  as  the  loftier  swell 

Sank  from  its  airy  throne,  there  came 
Soft  utterings  of  peace  that  fell 

Silently  breathing  one  loved  name. 

Still  loftier  grew  the  master  song, 
And  sweeter  stole  the  under  tone, 

When  suddenly  there  rolled  along 

Rude  storms,  and  every  breath  had  flown. 

Silent  and  cold  I  saw  thee  lay 

Thy  honours  and  thy  hopes  aside, 

And  slowly,  faintly  sink  away, 
Slow  as  the  long-retiring  tide. 

15* 


174 

The  breath  of  spring  to  thee  was  balm, 
And  summer  gave  thee  light  and  love  ; 

Thy  leaves  were  green,  when  air  was  calm, 
And  heaven  dropped  blessings  from  above. 

But  when  the  hills  are  bleak  and  bare, 
Thou  canst  not  stand  the  open  plain ; 

But  rather  thou  wouldst  wither,  where 
I  found  thee,  in  thy  woods,  again. 


SPIRIT  OF  MAY. 

WELCOME,  thrice  welcome,  Spirit  of  May  ! 

Blessings  be  round  thy  airy  way  ; 

Come,  with  thy  train  of  rainbow  hues 

Of  hovering  clouds  and  falling  dews — 

Come  to  our  garden  beds  and  bowers, 

And  cover  them  over  with  leaves  and  flowers. 

Already  the  summer  bird  is  there, 

And  he  sings  aloud  to  the  warm,  warm  air  ; 

There  he  carols  strong  and  free, 

And  his  song  and  his  joy  are  all  for  thee. 

Come  when  the  sparkling  rivers  run, 
Full  and  bright,  to  the  gladdening  sun  ; 
Come,  when  the  grass  and  springing  corn 
In  their  newest  and  tenderest  green  are  born  ; 
When  budding  woods  and  tufted  hills 
Wake  to  the  music  of  foaming  rills, 


175 

As  they  rush  from  their  fountains  deep  and  strong. 
And  in  calm  and  in  sunshine  roll  along ; 
Come,  when  the  soft  and  winning  air 
Tells  us  a  quickening  life  is  there. 

Come  to  our  bosoms,  Spirit  of  May  ! 
We  would  not  be  sad,  when  the  earth  is  gay  ; 
Wake,  in  the  heart  that  is  newly  strung, 
The  love  that  dwells  with  the  fair  and  young  ; 
Give,  to  their  full  and  speaking  eyes, 
Visions,  that  glitter  like  sunset  skies  ; 
Waft  them  with  quick  and  favouring  gales, 
Filling  with  music  their  glancing  sails  ; 
Theirs  be  a  flight  o'er  a  summer  sea, 
Where  nothing  of  cloud  or  storm  can  be. 

And  give  us,  who  long  have  bode  the  storm, 
To  feel  for  a  moment  our  spirits  warm  ; 
Let  the  hopes,  that  once  were  a  world  of  light, 
Look  out  from  our  sorrows  serene  and  bright, 
Like  stars  that  come  forth  on  the  midnight  air, 
When  the  cloud  has  passed  and  the  sky  is  fair ; 
Give  us  awhile  to  forget  our  cares, 
And  be  light  as  thy  own  enlivening  airs  ; 
Let  feelings  of  childhood  awake  like  flowers, 
When  they  open  to  catch  the  falling  showers. 

Come  from  thy  palace,  Spirit  of  May ! 

Where  flowers  ever  blossom  arid  fountains  play ; 

Bring  with  thee  Plenty's  brimming  horn? 


176 

And  the  tears  of  evening  and  dews  of  morn ; 

Build  thy  throne  in  the  clear,  blue  air, 

And  earth  shall  be  bright,  and  heaven  be  fair, 

And  the  winds,  that  rushed  from  the  rolling  cloud, 

And  lifted  their  voices  and  called  aloud, 

Shall  sink  to  a  softer  and  mellower  tone, 

Like  gales  from  a  happy  island  blown. 

Then  the  sea  shall  glow  in  its  darkest  bed, 

And  life  shall  revisit  the  mountain  head ; 

And  the  valley  shall  laugh,  and  the  forest  ring, 

For  joy  shall  be  out  on  his  glittering  wing  ; 

And  the  old  shall  pause,  and  the  young  shall  stare, 

As  they  hear  his  voice  in  the  sunny  air ; 

Glad  shall  their  hearts  and  their  spirits  be, 

When  they  know  he  is  sent  to  tell  of  thee, 

To  tell  them,  the  Queen  of  Love  and  May 

Is  now  on  her  bright,  triumphal  way. 

V          _ 

SHALL  I  gather  the  rose  of  the  mountain, 

Or  the  violet  low  in  the  vale, 
Or  the  birch  bending  over  the  fountain, 

Or  the  flower  that  wakes  up  with  the  gale  ? 
Shall  I  bring  thee  the  pink-coloured  blossom, 

That  closes  its  leaves  on  the  rain, 
Or  the  petals  that  open  their  bosom 

To  the  night,  and  are  lovely  in  vain  ? 


177 

The  violet  is  sweet  in  the  valley, 

And  the  wind  flower  that  welcomes  the  gale  ; 
And  the  birch,  where  the  bright  waters  sally, 

Tells  the  night  wind  a  murmuring  tale. 
Not  the  sun-loving  flower  of  the  dry  land 

Do  I  choose,  nor  the  blossom  that  blows 
In  the  moon,  but  I  go  to  the  highland, 

And  pluck  from  the  mountain  the  rose, 


TO  A  SHIP,  ON  GOING  TO  SEA. 

THE  gallant  ship  is  out  at  sea, 

Proudly  o'er  the  water  going ; 
Along  her  sides  the  billows  flee, 

Back  in  her  wake,  a  river,  flowing  : 
She  dips  her  stem  to  meet  the  wave, 

And  high  the  tossed  foam  curls  before  it ; 
As  if  she  felt  the  cheers  we  gave, 
She  takes  her  flight, 
Where  the  sea  looks  bright, 

And  the  sun  in  sparkles  flashes  o'er  it. 

Gallantly  on  she  cuts  her  way, 

And  now  in  distance  far  is  fleeting ; 

There  are  some  on  board  whose  hearts  are  gay. 
And  some  whose  hearts  are  wildly  beating  : 

Loud  was  the  cheer  her  seamen  gave, 
As  back  they  sent  our  welcome  cheering  ; 


178 

Many  a  hand  was  seen  to  wave, 
And  some  did  weep, 
And  fondly  keep 
Their  gaze  intent  when  out  of  hearing. 

They  have  parted,  and  now  are  far  at  sea — " 

Heaven  send  them  fair  and  gentle  weather  ! 
They  part  not  for  eternity ; 

Our  hands  shall  soon  be  linked  together  : 
The  sea  was  smooth,  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

And  the  tops  of  the  ruffled  waves  were  glowing, 
As  proudly  on  the  vessel  flew, 
Like  the  feathered  king, 
On  his  balanced  wing, 

To  a  distant  land  o'er  the  ocean  going. 


APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  ISLAND  OF  CUBA. 
Nov.  1822. 

THERE  is  blood  on  thy  desolate  shore, 

Thou  island  of  plunder  and  slaves  ! 
Thy  billows  are  purpled  with  gore, 

And  murder  has  crimsoned  thy  waves  ; 
The  vengeance  of  nations  will  come, 

And  wrath  shall  be  rained  on  thy  head, 
And  in  terror  thy  voice  shall  be  dumb, 

When  they  ask  for  their  brothers  who  bled. 
Thy  hand  was  not  stirred,  when  their  life-blood  was  spilt ; 
And  therefore  that  hand  must  partake  in  the  guilt. 


179 


Thou  art  guilty  or  weak, — and  the  rod 

Should  be  wrenched  from  thy  palsied  hand  ; 
By  the  pirate  thy  green  fields  are  trod, 

And  his  steps  have  polluted  thy  land ; 
Unmoved  is  thy  heart  and  thine  eye, 

When  our  dear-ones  are  tortured  and  slain  ; 
But  their  blood  with  a  terrible  cry, 

Calls  on  vengeance,  and  calls  not  in  vain  ; 
If  Europe  regard  not — our  land  shall  awake, 
And  thy  walls  and  thy  turrets  shall  tremble  and  shake, 

The  voice  of  a  world  shall  be  heard, 

And  thy  faith  shall  be  tried  by  the  call  ; 
And  that  terrible  voice  shall  be  feared, 

And  obeyed — or  the  proud  one  shall  fall. 
Enough  of  our  life  has  been  shed, 

In  watching  and  fighting  for  thee  ; 
If  thy  foot  linger  still — on  thy  head 

The  guilt  and  the  vengeance  shall  be  : 
"VVe  have  sworn  that  the  spirit  of  ALLEN  shall  lead, 
And  our  wrath  shall  not  rest,  till  we  finish  the  deed. 


TO  MELANTHE. 

I  SAW  thee,  like  a  lovely  dream — 

I  heard  thy  flowery  voice — 
I  saw  that  eye  of  mildness  beam, 
And  even  the  air  around  did  seem, 
In  brightn  ess,  to  rejoice. 


180 

Thou  wert  before  me,  pure  and  fair, 

A  nymph,  a  saint,  a  child 
Of  very  loveliness,  and  there 
Was  glory,  such  as  angels  wear, 

When  all  that  beauty  smiled. 

Thou  wert  before  me,  but  my  heart 

Was  any  thing,  but  gay — 
There  was  a  quick,  a  sudden  start, 
And  then  my  spirit  took  no  part, 

But  wandered  far  away. 

It  could  not  rest  in  that  delight, 

So  natural  to  thine — 
It  had  been  darkling  long  in  night, 
And  it  was  round  thee  all  too  bright, 

Too  gentle,  too  divine. 

The  thoughts  of  many  hopeless  years, 

Dark  visionary  hours, 
Wild  phantoms  of  unholy  fears, 
The  wo  that  wrings^  the  grief  that  sears — 

They  could  not  dwell  with  flowers. 

Thou  hadst  a  smile  for  me — for  me. 

0  !  would,  that  I  had  known 
A  friend,  a  more  than  friend,  like  thee, 
When  my  young  heart  was  pure  and  free, 

When  love  was  newly  blown. 


181 

My  life  had  been  a  dearer  thing — 

I  had  not  then  despaired  ; 
And  all  the  many  joys,  that  fling 
Their  colours  round  the  fleeting  wing 

Of  time,  been  with  thee  shared. 

0  !  thou  wert  all,  I  could  have  dreamed, 
In  love's  first  purple  bloom  ; 

1  saw  thee  smile,  and  then  it  seemed, 
As  if  a  blessed  vision  beamed, 

All  light  and  all  perfume. 

The  very  air  was  musical — 

A  glory  round  thee  flowed — 
The  winds  sank  to  a  dying  fall, 
And  melody  encircled  all 

In  that  serene  abode. 

It  could  not  last — it  would  not  stay — 

It  was  not  real — no. 
Yet  thou  didst  speak  to  me — they  say, 
Such  memories  cannot  pass  away, 

And  it  is  with  me  so. 

That  smile — that  smile — it  was  not  mine ; 

And  yet  on  me  it  smiled. 
Would  I  had  met  thee  so  divine, 
When  I  could  dare  to  call  me  thine, 

A  boy,  and  thou,  a  child. 
16 


182 


SONNET. 

BEHOLD  yon  hills.     The  one  is  fresh  and  fair  ; 

The  other  rudely  great.     New-springing  green 
Mantles  the  one  ;  and  on  its  top  the  star 

Of  love,  in  all  its  tenderest  light  is  seen. 
Island  of  joys  !  how  sweet  thy  gentle  rays 

Issue  from  heaven's  blue  depths  in  evening's  prime  ; 
But  round  yon  bolder  height  no  softness  plays, 

Nor  flower  nor  bud  adorns  its  front  sublime. 
Rude,  but  in  majesty,  it  mounts  in  air, 

And  on  its  summit  Jove  in  glory  burns  ; 
Mid  all  the  stars  that  pour  their  radiant  urns, 

None  with  that  lordly  planet  may  compare. 
But  see,  they  move  ;  and  tinged  with  love's  own  hue, 
Beauty  and  Power  embrace  in  heaven's  serenest  blue. 


CANZONETS. 


TELL  me,  heart,  oh  tell  me  where 
All  my  loves  and  hopes  are  flown  ? 
Ah !  to  weep  and  sigh  alone 

Withers  all  that's  fresh  and  fair. 


183 

Hours  of  tenderest  pleasure,  where, 
Where  have  fled  vour  golden  dreams 
Sorrow  now  in  life's  warm  streams 

Mingles  cold  and  wintry  care. 

Youth — how  proud  and  light  it  springs, 
Shouting,  "  welcome  flowery  May ! 
See,  the  turtle  sleeks  his  wings, 

Roses  bloom,  and  fountains  play  ; 
Earth  is  full  of  joyous  things" — 
Ah !  but  soon  they  fade  away. 

n. 

I  DIE,  my  love,  my  treasure; 
My  heart,  my  soul,  I  die. 
O  !  turn  that  gentle  eye, 
My  ebbing  life  shall  fly 
Back,  in  one  tide  of  pleasure. 
O  !  fairest,  sweetest,  dearest — 
0  !  soft  as  any  dream, 
When  by  the  meadow  stream 
Thy  loved  one's  lute  thou  hearest. 
I  ask  one  gift,  deny  not — 
Those  eyes  of  living  light, 
O  !  let  them  glad  my  sight — 
Look  hither,  love,  and  fly  not. 
My  heart,  my  heart  is  beating — 
O  !  hear  its  fond  entreating — 
O  !  turn  those  eyes  in  kindness — 
What  if  the  look  be  blindness  ? 
My  prayer,  my  prayer,  deny  not. 


184 


SONNET. 

EARTH  holds  no  fairer,  lovelier  one  than  thou, 
Maid  of  the  laughing  lip,  and  frolic  eye. 

Innocence  sits  upon  thy  open  brow, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  in  its  native  sky. 

If  ever  beauty  stole  the  heart  away, 

Enchantress,  it  would  fly  to  meet  thy  smile ; 

Moments  would  seem  by  thee  a  summer  day, 
And  all  around  thee  an  Elysian  isle. 

Roses  are  nothing  to  the  maiden  blush 
Sent  o'er  thy  cheek's  soft  ivory,  and  night 
Has  nought  so  dazzling  in  its  world  of  light, 

As  the  dark  rays  that  from  thy  lashes  gush. 
Love  lurks  amid  thy  silken  curls,  and  lies 
Like  a  keen  archer  in  thy  kindling  eyes. 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  FLOWERS. 

IN  eastern  lands  they  talk  in  flowers, 

And  they  tell  in  a  garland  their  loves  and  cares 
Each  blossom  that  blooms  in  their  garden  bowers. 

On  its  leaves  a  mystic  language  bears. 

The  rose  is  the  sign  of  joy  and  love, 

Young  blushing  love  in  its  earliest  dawn; 

And  the  mildness  that  suits  the  gentle  dove, 
From  the  myrtle's  snowy  flower  is  drawn. 


185 

Innocence  shines  in  the  lily's  bell, 

Pure  as  a  heart  in  its  native  heaven  ; 
Fame's  bright  star,  and  glory's  swell, 

By  the  glossy  leaf  of  the  bay  are  given. 
The  silent,  soft,  and  humble  heart 

In  the  violet's  hidden  sweetness  breathes  ; 
And  the  tender  soul  that  cannot  part, 

A  twine  of  evergreen  fondly  wreathes. 
The  cypress  that  darkly  shades  the  grave, 

Is  sorrow  that  mourns  her  bitter  lot ; 
And  faith,  that  a  thousand  ills  can  brave, 

Speaks  in  thy  blue  leaves,  forget-me-not. 

Then  gather  a  wreath  from  the  garden  bowers, 
And  tell  the  wish  of  thy  heart  in  flowers. 


EVERY  day  I  muse  upon  thee — 
Life  and  joy  thou  art  to  me — 
If  a  faithful  heart  could  win  thee, 

Soon  my  own  love  thou  wouldst  be. 

Ah  !  how  sweet  to  dwell  with  thee. 

Swift  my  years  would  glide  away — 
All  around  would  laugh  with  pleasure — 
Rich  would  be  the  priceless  treasure — 
Art  could  find  no  words  to  say, 
How  my  bounding  thoughts  would  play. 
16* 


186 

Let  me  then  be  ever  nigh  thee — 
Youth  shall  be  our  spring  of  love — 
Mild  as  any  mother  dove, 

Age  shall  sit  in  quiet  by  thee — 
Never  may  misfortune  try  thee. 


HOME. 

MY  place  is  in  the  quiet  vale, 

The  chosen  haunt  of  simple  thought ; 
I  seek  not  fortune's  flattering  gale, 

I  better  love  the  peaceful  lot. 

I  leave  the  world  of  noise  and  show, 
To  wander  by  my  native  brook ; 

I  ask,  in  life's  unruffled  flow, 

No  treasure  but  my  friend  and  book. 

These  better  suit  the  tranquil  home, 
Where  the  clear  water  murmurs  by  ; 

And  if  I  wish  awhile  to  roam, 
I  have  an  ocean  in  the  sky. 

Fancy  can  charm  and  feeling  bless 

With  sweeter  hours  than  fashion  knows  ; 

There  is  no  calmer  quietness, 

Than  home  around  the  bosom  throws. 


187 


THE  FLIGHT, OF  TIME. 

FAINTLY  flow,  them  falling  river, 

Like  a  dream  that  dies  away ; 
Down  to  ocean  gliding  ever, 

Keep  thy  calm  unruffled  way  : 
Time  with  such  a  silent  motion, 

Floats  along,  on  wings  of  air, 
To  eternity's  dark  ocean, 

Burying  all  its  treasures  there. 

Roses  bloom,  and  then  they  wither  ; 

Cheeks  are  bright,  then  fade  and  die  ; 
Shapes  of  light  are  wafted  hither — 

Then,  like  visions  hurry  by  : 
Quick  as  clouds  at  evening  driven 

O'er  the  many-coloured  west, 
Years  are  bearing  us  to  heaven, 

Home  of  happiness  and  rest. 


FADING  FLOWERS. 

CAN  the  rose  of  summer  fade, 
The  bright  and  blooming  rose  ? 

Shall  winter  sweep  the  glade, 
Where  its  tender  beauty  blows  ? 


-   188 

There  is  perfume  in  the  air, 

And  it  steals  from  the  opening  flower  ; 
But  the  winds  shall  rudely  tear 

The  treasures  of  field  and  bower. 

They  fade — how  soon  they  fade, 

The  flowers  of  earth  and  sky. 
Was  all  that  beauty  made, 

To  smile  a  moment  and  die  1 
0  !  will  not  the  colours  stay, 

That  glow  in  the  west  at  even, 
And  the  hues  of  the  rising  day 

Be  ever  the  charm  of  heaven? 

0  !  let  me  not  think,  the  flowers 
Shall  ever  be  borne  away, 

From  the  full  and  loaded  bowers, 
Where  they  welcome  the  early  day. 

1  would  not  indulge  one  thought, 

That  a  rose  or  a  cheek  could  wither ; 
But  believe,  their  colours  caught 

From  heaven,  shall  be  wafted  thither. 


MOONLIGHT  IN  A  WOOD. 

MOONLIGHT  is  gleaming, 
Where  the  brook,  streaming 
Over  the  bright  sands, 
Winds  through  the  woodlands ; 


189 

Where  the  trees,  bending 
Lowly,  are  lending 
Gloom  to  the  clear  flow, 
Erst  in  a  full  glow 
Under  the  broad  light 
Of  the  starred  midnight — 
But  now  it  darkles, 
Save  a  few  sparkles, 
Where  some  stray  moonbeam 
Falls  in  a  pale  stream, 
Or  a  soft  shower 
Through  the  high  bower, 
Which  the  dark  wood  weaves 
Close  with  its  young  leaves. 
Then  as  I  view  them, 
Light  trembles  through  them ; 
While  far  above  them, 
(O  !  how  I  love  them,) 
See  the  stars  twinkle, 
Where  the  clouds  crinkle, 
And  the  bright  moon  sheds 
Light  on  the  hill-heads, 
With  such  fair  glances, 
As  when  she  dances, 
W'here  the  calm  ocean, 
With  a  soft  motion 
Hushing  its  roar, 
Rolls  its  white  breakers, 
Those  wide  earth-shakers, 
Slow  to  the  shore. 


190 


THE  CONTRAST. 

I  SAW  the  fair  one  pass  away, 

In  her  earliest  beauty's  bright  array, 

In  the  glow  of  hope  and  the  flush  of  pride, 

And  the  innocent  joy  of  a  virgin  bride, 

When  her  heart,  yet  pure  as  the  first  fallen  snow, 

Gave  loose  to  its  feeling's  fullest  flow, 

And  her  cheek,  as  rich  as  the  crimson  flower 

That  opens  in  India's  sunny  bower, 

Was  hung  with  curls  that  danced  and  flew, 

As  the  wind  of  the  morning  lightly  blew, 

And  swelled  the  sail  of  the  bark  that  bore 

The  bride  from  that  loved  and  lovely  shore. 

0  !  thus  in  her  maiden  beauty  gay 

1  saw  that  fair  one  pass  away. 

I  saw  that  faded  fair  return 

With  heart  as  chill  as  a  marble  urn, 

And  cheek  of  as  pale  and  wan  a  hue, 

As  a  blossom  wet  by  the  poison  dew, 

That  falls  from  the  leaves  of  the  funeral  yew  ; 

Her  eye  had  lost  its  glancing  fire, 

Her  cheek  the  glow  of  young  desire, 

And  she  gazed  on  the  home  of  her  tender  years 

With  a  look  too  cold  for  smiles  or  tears, 

But  a  look  that  told  ho-w  her  peace  had  flown, 

And  how  she  was  left  in  her  grief  alone. 


191 

Thus  pale  and  still  to  the  shore  she  drew, 
As  the  wind  of  the  morning1  lightly  blew, 
O  !  how  unlike  to  the  joyous  day, 
When  she  passed  m  her  beauty's  pride  away. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

0  !  NOT  the  clear  and  sunny  wave, 

That  rolls  around  the  Egean  isles  ; 
Nor  all  that  ancient  beauty  gave 

Of  fondest  dallyings  and  smiles  ; 
Nor  all  the  spirit-stirring  notes, 

That  come  from  high  Apollo's  shrine, 
When  the  full  hymn  and  song  divine 

Round  Delphi's  golden  temple  floats  : 
0  !  not  the  hills  that  bear  the  vine, 

And  far  their  breathing  odours  throw ; 
Not  the  bright  skies,  whose  evening  twine 

Outvies,  in  tints,  the  breded  bow ; 
Not  all  the  luxury  of  shade 

Beneath  the  spreading  chesnut-tree  ; 
Not  all  the  flowers  that  never  fade, 

Rude  land  of  storms  !  can  equal  thee. 
In  thee  my  infant  being  drew 

The  first  reviving  breath  of  air ; 
My  early  years  in  gladness  flew 

Light,  as  a  dream  of  summer  there  : 


192 

Still  round  thy  rocks  my  spirit  clings — 
It  cannot  tear  itself  away ; 

And  if  it  had  an  eagle's  wings, 

There  it  would  ever  hovering  play ; 

For,  0  !  there  is  no  spot  of  earth 

Dear,  as  the  land  that  gave  us  birth. 


ODE, 
JULY  4,  1826. 

BRIGHT  Day !  with  thee  the  song 

Of  Independence  rose ; 
Then  Freedom,  bold  and  strong, 

Defied  her  mortal  foes  : 
Armed  into  life  and  light  she  sprung, 

Like  Pallas  born  of  Jove ; 
At  Britain's  feet  the  gauntlet  flung, 

And  back  her  champion  drove  : 
Young,  and  yet  wise,  she  won  her  cause, 

And  war's  red  banner  furled ; 
Then  fixed  the  reign  of  equal  laws, 
»     And  awed  a  wondering  world. 

Bright  Day !  with  thee  our  sires 
Proclaimed  Columbia  free — 

Light  with  auspicious  fires 
This  holiest  jubilee  : 


193 

Mid  clouds  of  war  thy  sun  arose, 

And  danger  met  thy  birth  ; 
Now  wide  and  full  thy  bounty  flows, 

It  warms  and  kindles  earth : 
The  Andes  redden  in  thy  blaze ; 

Their  millions  kneel  to  thee — 
They  hail  thee,  earliest  born  of  days, 

First  dawn  of  Liberty. 

Earth  owns  thy  influence  now — 

'Tis  not  the  few,  who  dared 
Refuse  to  bend  and  bow, 

When  Power's  right  arm  was  bared — 
*Tis  not  that  sacred  band,  who  tore 

The  charter  and  the  chain, 
Then  on  a  nation's  altar  swore, 

Their  birthright  to  maintain — 
Now  hear  a  continent  proclaim 

One  vow,  one  prayer,  to  heaven, 
For  every  foreign  lord  in  shame, 

Back  to  his  home  is  driven. 

Then,  be  thy  quickening  light 

Still  brighter  as  it  rolls, 
Till  all  on  earth  unite, 

One  band  of  kindred  souls ; 
For  ever  may  thy  altar  burn 

With  Freedom's  holiest  flame, 
17 


194 

And  ages  after  ages  turn 
To  venerate  thy  name — 

O  !  never  may  our  sons  forget 
The  men  who  dared  be  free, 

And  on  its  firm  foundations  set 
Thy  temple,  Liberty. 


ODE, 

CONCORD,    APRIL    19,    1825. 

WHEN  first  from  the  land  of  the  tyrant  and  slave 

Our  fore-fathers  ventured  to  cross  the  wide  ocean, 
They  kneeled  as  they  came  from  the  perilous  wave, 
And  uttered  their  vows  with  an  earnest  devotion  ; 
Bright  Spirit !  in  thee 
We  will  ever  be  free, 

While  thy  sun  gives  its  light 
To  the  land  and  the  sea, 
And  here  on  the  storm-beaten  rock  we  unite 
To  conquer  or  die  for  our  God  and  our  right. 

Then  deep  in  their  bosoms  they  nourished  the  flame, 

That  burst  from  their  hearts  in  the  moment  of  danger, 
When  proudly  the  minion  of  tyranny  came, 

Polluting  their  homes  with  the  foot  of  the  stranger. 
Then  they  flew  to  the  fight, 
Where  Liberty's  light 


195 


Called  the  bold-hearted  yeoman 
To  rise  in  his  might, 

And  the  hard  hand  of  labour  undauntedly  gave 
The  welcome  of  death  to  the  murdering  slave. 

Here  first  in  the  red  field  of  battle  they  stood, 

And  fearlessly  gathered  the  harvest  of  glory ; 
Here  they  first  stamped  the  seal  of  their  union  in  blood, 
And  imprinted  their  names  on  the  records  of  story : 
Here  proudly  again 
We  meet  on  the  plain, 

Where  England  first  tried 
To  enslave  us  in  vain, 

And  firm  in  their  purpose  our  Fathers  unfurled 
Bright  Liberty's  flag  to  a  wondering  world. 

Here,  flushed  with  the  high  hopes  of  Freedom,  we  join 

In  an  act  of  the  purest  and  deepest  devotion — 
O  !  long  may  our  children  be  drawn  to  this  shrine 
By  an  instinct  as  sure  as  the  tides  of  the  ocean ; 
May  they  never  forget, 
How  their  fore-fathers  met, 

And  planted  the  green  tree 
That  flourishes  yet, 

But  warm  with  the  spirit  of  Liberty  raise 
To  the  brave  hearts  who  saved  us,  one  chorus  of  praise. 


196 


WASHINGTON'S  NAME. 


AT  the  heart  of  our  country  the  tyrant  was  leaping, 

To  die  there  the  point  of  his  dagger  in  gore, 
When  Washington  sprang  from  the  watch  he  was  keeping, 

And  drove  back  that  tyrant  in  shame  from  our  shore  : 
The  cloud  that  hung  o'er  us,  then  parted  and  rolled 
Its  wreaths  far  away,  deeply  tinctured  with  flame  ; 
And  high  on  its  fold 
Was  a  legend  that  told 
The  brightness  that  circled  our  Washington's  name, 

Long  years  have  rolled  on,  and  the  sun  still  has  brightened 

Our  mountains  and  fields,  with  its  ruddiest  glow  ; 
And  the  bolt  that  he  wielded  so  proudly,  has  lightened, 

With  a  flash  as  intense,  in  the  face  of  the  foe  : 
On  the  land  and  the  sea,  the  wide  banner  has  rolled 
O'er  many  a  chief,  on  his  passage  to  fame  ; 
And  still  on  its  fold 
Shine  in  letters  of  gold 
The  glory  and  worth  of  our  Washington's  name. 

And  so  it  shall  be,  while  eternity  tarries, 

And  pauses  to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  time  ; 

The  bird  of  the  tempest,  whose  quick  pinion  carries 
Our  arrows  of  vengeance,  shall  hover  sublime  : 

Wherever  that  flag  on  the  wind  shall  be  rolled. 


197 

All  hearts  shall  be  kindled  with  anger  and  shame, 
If  e'er  they  are  told, 
They  are  careless  and  cold, 

In  the  glory  that  circles  our  Washington's  name. 


LIBERTY. 

A  VOICE  is  on  our  hills, 

And  it  echoes  far  at  sea  : 
With  a  quickening  power  it  fills 
Every  heart,  and  inly  thrills — 

'Tis  the  voice  of  Liberty. 

A  glance  darts  from  yon  cloud, 

And  it  frights  thee,  tyrant — thee ; 
But  the  freeman  rises  proud, 
And  his  sire  stirs  in  his  shroud — 
'Tis  the  glance  of  Liberty. 

A  warning  calls  at  night ; 

"  Nations,  rouse  ye,  and  be  free." 
They  hear  it  with  delight, 
But  the  monarch  looks  affright — 

'Tis  thy  warning,  Liberty. 

There's  a  presence  in  the  air, 
Which  we  feel,  but  cannot  see  ; 
17* 


198 

Every  bosom  gladdens  therer 
High  to  hope,  and  strong  to  dare — 
'Tis  thy  presence,  Liberty. 

The  God  our  hearts  adore, 

Builds  his  throne  on  land  and  sea 
He  is  in  the  tempest's  roar, 
Or  when  ocean  laps  the  shore — 

That  God  is  Liberty. 


THE  GREEK  SONG  OF  VICTORY. 

THE  red  day  of  slaughter  is  done  ; 
The  rose  tint  is  pale  in  the  west ; 
The  triumph  of  Liberty  won, 

Joy  swells  each  Athenian  breast : 
We  have  buried  our  foes  in  the  wave, 

That  rolls  on  our  iron-bound  shore  ; 
And  the  foot  of  the  Ottoman  slave 

Shall  dare  scale  our  ramparts  no  more  : 
They  came  in  their  pride  and  their  pomp  to  the  fight, 
But  have  scattered  like  dust,  in  the  rush  of  our  might. 

They  came  with  the  dawning  of  day  ; 

The  sun  brightly  glanced  on  their  sails  ; 
And  their  fleet,  on  its  conquering  way, 

Bore  forward  with  favouring  gales  : 


199 


Like  a  dark  cloud  of  tempest  they  came  ; 

Already  they  uttered  their  yell — 
When  we  let  loose  our  arrows  of  flame, 
And  the  pride  of  the  Mussulman  fell : 
Then  the  waves  with  the  fire  and  the  slaughter  were  red, 
And  our  prows  hurried  on  through  the  dying  and  dead. 

They  are  gone — and  the  sea  rolls  again 

In  peace  on  our  iron-bound  shore  ; 
They  have  left  but  the  wreck  and  the  stain, 

Where  the  green  waves  heaved  purple  with  gore  : 
As  the  last  light  grows  dim  in  the  west, 

O  God  of  the  brave  and  the  free  ! 
How  the  fullness  that  swells  in  each  breast 

Is  poured  forth  in  blessings  to  thee  : 
For  we  trusted  in  thee — and  the  arm  of  thy  might 
Has  scattered  our  foes  in  the  perilous  fight. 


BIRTH-DAY  OF  LINNJCUS. 

IN  a  temple  built  by  God, 
The  bright  and  boundless  heaven — 
Its  pavement  the  green  sod, 

With  the  woods  to  wave  around, 
In  a  harmony  of  sound, 
To  his  favourites  only  given — 
Only  given  to  those  ears, 
Who  can  catch  the  chiming  spheres — 


200 

Only  given  to  those  hearts, 

Who  can  feel  him  in  the  flowers, 

Who  with  high  and  holy  arts 
Know  to  steal  away  the  hours 
From  the  blank  of  vulgar  men — 
We  are  spirits  only  then, 
And  with  voices  pure  and  free, 
Only  then  can  worship  thee — 
Then  can  only  at  thy  throne, 
Thou  unseen  invisible  one  ! 
At  thy  throne  of  earth  and  air, 
In  the  common  gladness  share 

Of  a  universe  that  smiles 

Underneath  thy  quickening  ray, 
As  we  see  at  noon  of  day, 

Through  wide  groups  of  palmy  isles 
The  ocean  dance  its  way. 

In  that  temple  wide  as  earth, 
And  unlimited  as  air, 

May  the  mind,  who  called  to  birth 
A  creation,  none  may  dare 

With  a  reckless  hand  profane — 
May  he  look  from  out  his  heaven, 

And  with  smiles,  like  early  rain 
Falling  on  the  joyous  flowers, 
Be  among  us  through  these  hours, 
When  we  meet  to  weave  a  crown 
For  his  sacerdotal  brow — 
Not  to  this  our  spirits  bow — 


201 

A  better  light  came  down 

With  thy  teaching — thou  didst  ever 
Lead  us  upward  to  the  giver. 

Like  the  white-robed  priest  of  old, 
In  a  mantle  pure  as  light, 
Thou  didst  lead  us  on  through  night 

Into  nature's  deepest  fold, 
Till  we  caught  the  fire  divine 
Beaming  from  the  inmost  shrine — 
Caught  the  radiance  of  that  sun, 
Where  the  spirit  dwells  alone. 

'Tis  a  pure  and  holy  rite, 
One  that  loves  the  blessed  light — 
With  a  sacrifice  of  bloomr 
Rich  in  colours  and  perfume, 

Let  the  altar  now  be  graced  ; 
And  that  living  breath  shall  rise 
Unburnt  incense  to  the  skies. 
Be  our  hearts  as  free  from  stain, 

Thou,  invisible  one,  shalt  smile 
Kindly  on  our  rites,  the  while 

With  our  dear  ones  at  our  side, 
We  are  gathered  here  again, 

In  thy  fairest  month  of  May, 
Our  grateful  debt  to  pay 

To  thy  servant,  and  our  guide. 


202 


HOPE  OF  FAME. 

To  live  beyond  the  grave — to  leave  a  name, 

That,  like  a  living  sun,  shall  hold  its  way 

Undimmed  through  ages — to  be  hailed  hereafter, 

As  first  among  the  spirits  who  have  gifted 

Their  land  with  fame — to  dwell  amid  the  thoughts 

Of  all  sublimer  souls,  as  deities 

Are  treasured  in  their  shrines — to  load  the  tongues 

Of  nations,  and  be  uttered  in  the  songs 

And  prayers  of  millions — he  who  bears  such  hope 

Fixed  in  his  heart,  and  holds  his  lonely  way 

Cheered  by  this  only,  and  yet  keeps  himself 

Unwavering  in  the  many  shocks  that  push 

His  purpose  from  its  path — he  was  not  cast 

In  nature's  common  mould.     Such  hope  itself 

Is  greatness. 


SONNETS. 


Is  it  not  true,  as  one  has  proudly  sung, 
"  A  Poet's  love  is  Immortality?" 

Many  a  time  and  oft  that  note  has  rung 
Echoings  of  high  and  heavenly  harmony. 


203 

Sweet  when  the  weary  day  is  done,  to  be 
Greeted  by  budding  lips  and  kindling  eyes, 

Pressed  to  the  one  true  heart  in  ecstasy — 
Enchantment,  only  worthy  of  the  skies. 

Repose  my  heart  has  sought,  and  all  in  vain ; 
Care,  like  a  demon,  hunts  me  every  where  ; 
In  vain  this  faded  brow  a  wreath  may  wear — 

Vain  laurels,  colder  than  the  captive's  chain : 
A  look,  a  word  of  fondness,  kindly  given, 
Love-lit  and  tender,  to  that  fame  were  heaven. 


n. 

0  !  thou  sole-sitting  Spirit  of  Loneliness, 
Whose  haunt  is  by  the  wild  and  dropping  caves, 
Thou,  of  the  musing  eye  and  scattered  tress, 

1  meet  thee  with  a  passionate  joy,  no  less 
Than  when  the  mariner,  from  off  his  waves, 
Catches  the  glimpses  of  a  far  blue  shore — 
He  thinks  the  danger  of  his  voyage  o'er, 
And  pressing  all  his  canvass,  steers  to  land, 
With  a  glad  bosom  and  a  ready  hand. 

So  I  would  hie  me  to  thy  desolate  shade, 
And  seat  myself  in  some  deep-sheltered  nook, 
And  never  breathe  a  wish  again  to  look 

On  the  to-?sed  world,  but  rather  listless  laid 
Pore  on  the  bubbles  of  the  passing  brook. 


ERRATA.. 

Page  18,  line  16,  for  settling  read  setting. 
"     23     "      5     "     Christians  read  '  hnstian 
a    31,  "      7,  from  bottom,  Jor  summoning  read  summoning. 
11     36,    "    15,  for  or  read  and. 
"    48,   /x     6,  "    fw/f  read  <w/f*. 


